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Photographic 
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Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STRHT 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

(716)  873-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


k 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


The 
toti 


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n 


D 
D 

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The 
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of  tl 
film 


Orifl 

begl 

the 

•ion 

othi 

first 

•ion 

oril 


I     y  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

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I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

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•hal 
TINI 
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diffi 
enti 
begl 
righ 
reqi 
met 


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obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmi  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

/ 

H 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


Th«  copy  film«d  h«r«  has  bMn  r«produc«d  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

Univariity  of  British  Columbia  Library 


L'axamplaira  filmi  fut  raproduit  grAca  A  la 
g4nAroi:fti  da: 

University  of  British  Columbia  Library 


Tha  imjgas  appaarinfi  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
possibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacifications. 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  AtA  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattatA  da  raxamplaire  filmi,  at  an 
conformity  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
fiimaga. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  filmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  iilustratan  impras- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  iilustratad  impras- 
sion,  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  iilustratad  impression. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — »>  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  Y  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  applias. 


Las  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  un 
papiar  ast  imprimia  sont  fiimis  an  commanpant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'fmprassion  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  las  autras  axamplairas 
originaux  sont  fiimis  an  comman9ant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniira  page  qui  comporta  una  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  spparaftre  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — »•  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  mey  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  retios.  Thoss  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upp^r  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartss.  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
fiimis  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  ie  document  est  trop  grsnd  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  ssul  clichA.  il  est  filmi  i  partir 
de  I'angle  supirisur  gsuche,  de  gauche  i  droite, 
et  de  heut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imeges  nicessaire.  Les  disgremmes  suivants 
illustrent  le  mithode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

THE   MERMAID 


■Pi 


■ 


IV 


"  Lady,  I  fain  would  tell  how  evermore 
Tiiy  soul  I  know  not  from  thy  body,  nor 
Thee  from  myself,  neither  our  love  from  God." 


THE     MERMAID 


A   LOVE   TALE 


BY 

L.    DOUGALL 

AUTHOR    OF    BEGGARS    AL        WHAT    NECESSITY    KNOWS,    ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1895 


*» 


COI'TRUJIIT,   1895, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


I  r 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK   I. 

CHAPTER 

I. — TiTE   BENT   TWm     . 

II. — The  sau-eyed  chim)   . 
III.— Lost  in  the  sea. 
IV. — A  quiet  life 

V. — Seen  through  blear  eyes 
VI. — "  From  hour  to  hour  we  ripe 

VII. — ''A    SEA   rilAMJE*' 

VIII.— Belief  in  the  impossible 
IX.— The  sea-maid's  music. 
X. — Towed  by  the  beard 
XI.— Years  of  discretion  . 


PA  (IK 

1 

4 

11 

10 
24 
34 
41 
49 

no 

05 
71 


BOOK   II. 

I.— The  hand  that  beckoned 
II. — The  isles  of  St.  Maodalen 
III. — Between  the  surf  .and  the  sand 
IV. — Where  the  devil  lived    . 

V. — Devilry 

VI. — The  sea-maid      .... 
VII.— The  orave  lady. 
VIII. — How  they  lived  on  The  Cloud 
IX. — The  sick  and  the  dead    . 

X. — A    LIGKT-OIVING    WORD 

V 


7.) 

85 
90 
101 
109 
118 
122 
120 
180 
141 


fit- 


l<  '  ! 


M 


VI 


CONTKNTS. 


cnAPTKR 

XI. — The  lady's  HUsnANi) 

XII.— The  maiden  inventeo  ,  .  .  .  . 
XIII. — White  birds;  white  snow;  white  THoudHTs. 
X1V^— The  marriace  scene 


PAOK 

14i) 
155 

\m 

173 


BOOK    III. 

r. — TTow  we  hunted  the  seals 
TI. — Once  more  the  vision 
III. — "Love,  I  speak  to  thy  face". 
IV. — Hope  born  ok  sprin(j 

V. — To   the   HiCtllER   COl'RT 

VI. — "The  NKiHT  is  dark" 
VII. — The  wild  waves  whist     . 
VIII.— "God 's  in  his  heaven"     . 
IX. — "(iod's  pippets,  best  and  worst" 
X. — "Death  shrive  thy  soul!"     . 
XI. — The  riddle  of  life  . 
XII. — To  call  a  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep 
XUI. — The  evening  and  the  morning 


183 

IHH 

1!)3 

201 

•208 

210 
007 

230 
249 
254 
203 
2:1 
283 


THE     M  E  R  M  AID. 


BOOK  /. 


CHAPTER   I. 


THK    UK  NT  TWIG. 


Caits  Simpson  was  the  only  son  of  a  farmer  who 
lived  on  tiie  nortli-west  coast  of  Prince  Edward's  Island. 
The  farmer  was  verv  well-to-do,  for  he  was  a  hard-work- 
ing  man,  and  his  land  produced  richly.  Tiie  father  was 
a  man  of  good  understanding,  and  the  son  had  been  born 
with  brains;  there  were  traditions  of  education  in  the 
family,  hence  the  name  Caius;  it  was  no  plan  of  the 
elder  man  that  his  son  should  also  be  a  farmer.  The  boy 
was  first  sent  to  learn  in  what  was  called  an  "Academy," 
a  school  in  tiie  largest  town  of  the  island.  Caius  loved 
his  books,  and  became  a  youthful  scholar.  In  the  sum- 
mer he  did  light  work  on  the  farm ;  the  work  was  of  a 
quiet,  monotonous  sort,  for  his  parents  were  no  friends 
to  frivolity  or  excitement. 

Caius  was  strictly  brought  up.  The  method  of  his 
training  was  that  which  relies  for  strength  of  character 
chiefly  upon  the  absence  of  temptation.  The  father  was 
under  the  impression  that  he  could,  without  an^  labori- 
ous effort  and  consideration,  draw  a  line  between  good 


TIIK   MERMAID. 


ii 


IM 


'I 


I  ,'* 


und  evil,  niul  kcoi)  liis  son  on  one  Hide  of  it.  He  was  not 
mistcre — but  his  view  of  rigiiteoiisness  was  derived  from 
puritan  tradition. 

A  boy,  if  i\iiully  treated,  usually  begins  early  to  ap- 
prove the  only  teaching  of  which  he  has  experience.  As 
a  youth,  Caius  heartily  endorsed  his  father's  views,  and 
felt  suj)erior  to  all  who  were  more  lax.  lie  had  been 
born  into  that  religious  school  which  teaches  that  a  man 
should  think  for  himself  on  every  question,  provided 
that  he  arrives  at  a  foregone  conclusion.  Caius,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  had  already  done  much  reasoning  on 
certain  subjects,  and  proved  his  work  by  observing  that 
his  conclusions  tallied  with  set  models.  As  a  result,  he 
was,  if  not  a  reasonable  being,  a  reasoning  and  a  moral 
one. 

We  have  ceased  to  draw  a  distinction  between  Nature 
and  the  forces  of  education.  It  is  a  great  problem  why 
Nature  sets  so  many  young  people  in  the  world  who  are 
apparently  unfitted  for  the  battle  of  life,  and  certainly 
have  no  power  to  excel  in  any  direction.  The  subjective 
religion  which  Caius  had  been  taught  had  nourished 
within  him  great  store  of  noble  sentiment  and  high  de- 
sire, but  it  had  dei)rived  him  of  that  rounded  knowledge 
of  actual  life  which  alone,  it  would  appear,  teaches  how 
to  guide  these  forces  into  the  more  useful  channels. 
Then  as  to  capacity,  he  had  the  fine  sensibilities  of  a 
poet,  the  facile  introspection  of  the  philosoi)hical  cast  of 
mind,  without  the  mental  power  to  write  good  verse  or 
to  be  a  philosopher.  He  had,  at  least  in  ycuth,  the  con- 
science of  a  saint  without  the  courage  and  endurance 
which  appear  necessary  to  heroism.  In  mockery  the 
quality  of  ambition  was  bestowed  upon  him  but  not  the 
requisites  for  success.     Nature  has    been  working  for 


THE   HKNT  TWIG. 


8 


millions  of  years  to  j)ro(liico  just  sucli  cliuructers  as 
Caius  Simpson,  and,  chanicU'r  l)f'in<(  mtluT  too  costly 
a  production  to  throw  away,  no  doubt  she  has  a  precise 
use  for  every  on(!  of  tlieni. 

It  is  not  the  province  of  art  to  solve  problems,  but 
to  depict  them.  It  is  enough  for  the  purpose  of  telling 
his  story  that  a  man  has  been  endowed  with  capacity  to 
suffer  and  rejoice. 


J 

f    \ 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE   SAD-EYED   CHILD. 


One  evcnins^  in  early  summer  Cuius  went  a-fishing. 
He  started  to  wallc  several  miles  to  an  inlet  where  at 
hif^h  tide  the  sea-trout  came  within  reach  of  the  line. 
The  country  road  was  of  red  clay,  and,  turning  from  the 
more  tliickly-settled  district,  Cains  followed  it  through 
a  wide  wood  of  hudding  trees  and  out  where  it  skirted 
the  top  of  low  red  cliffs,  against  which  the  sea  was  lap- 
ping. Then  his  way  led  him  across  a  farm.  So  far  he 
had  heen  walking  indolently,  happy  enough,  hut  here 
the  shadow  of  the  pain  of  the  world  fell  upon  him. 

This  farm  was  a  lonesome  place  close  to  the  sea; 
there  was  no  appearance  of  prosperity  about  it.  Ctiiiis 
knew  that  the  farmer,  Day  by  name,  was  a  churl,  and 
was  said  to  keep  his  family  on  short  rations  of  happi- 
ness. As  Cains  turned  off  the  public  road  he  was  not 
thinki ag  specially  of  the  bleak  appeai'ance  of  the  par- 
ticular piece  of  farmland  he  was  crossing,  or  of  the 
reputation  of  the  family  who  lived  upon  the  increase  of 
its  acres;  but  his  attention  was  soon  drawn  to  three 
children  swinging  on  a  gate  which  hung  loosely  in  the 
log  fence  not  far  from  the  house.  The  eldest  was  an 
awkward-looking  girl  about  twelve  years  of  age ;  the 
second  was  a  little  boy;  the  youngest  was  a  round- 


!  I 


THE  SAD-EYED  CHILD. 


limbed,  blond  baby  of  two  or  three  summers.  The 
three  stood  upon  the  lowest  bar  of  the  gate,  clinging 
to  the  upper  s})ars.  The  eldest  leaned  her  elbows  on 
the  top  and  looked  over;  the  baby  embraced  the  mid- 
dle bar  and  looked  through.  They  had  set  the  rickety 
gate  swinging  petulantly,  and  it  latched  and  unlatched 
itself  with  the  sort  of  sound  that  the  swaying  of  some 
dreary  wind  would  give  it.  The  children  seemed  to 
swing  there,  not  because  they  were  happy,  but  because 
they  were  miserable. 

As  Caius  came  with  light  step  up  the  lane,  fish- 
ing gear  over  his  shoulder,  the  children  looked 
at  him  disconsolately,  and  when  he  approached  the 
gate  the  eldest  stepped  down  and  pulled  it  open  for 
him. 

"Anything  the  matter?"  he  asked,  stopping  his 
quick  tread,  and  turning  when  he-  had  passed 
throusfh. 

The  big  girl  did  not  answer,  but  she  let  go  the  gate, 
and  when  it  jerked  forward  the  baby  fell. 

She  did  not  fall  far,  nor  was  she  hurt ;  but  as 
Caius  picked  her  up  and  patted  her  cotton  clothes  to 
sliake  the  dust  out  of  them,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  never  seen  so  sad  a  look  in  a  baby's  eyes.  Large, 
dark,  dewy  eyes  they  wTre,  circled  around  with  curly 
lashes,  and  tiiey  looked  up  at  him  out  of  a  wistful 
little  face  that  was  framed  by  a  wreath  of  vellow  hair. 
Cuius  lifted  the  child,  kissed  her,  put  her  down,  and 
went  on  his  way.  lie  only  gave  his  action  half  a 
thought  at  the  time,  but  all  his  life  afterwards  he  was 
sorry  that  he  had  let  the  baby  go  out  of  his  arms 
again,  and  thankful  that  ho  had  given  her  that  one 
kiss. 


t 


6 


THE  MERMAID. 


fil 


I   ) 


ill 


His  path  now  lay  close  by  the  house  and  on  to  the 
sea-cliff  behind.  The  house  stood  in  front  of  him — 
four  bare  wooden  walls,  brown  painted,  and  without 
veranda  or  ornament;  its  barns,  large  and  ugly,  were 
close  beside  it.  Beyond,  some  stunted  firs  grew  in  a 
dip  of  the  cliff,  but  on  the  level  ground  the  farmer 
had  felled  every  tree.  The  homestead  itself  was  ugly ; 
but  the  land  was  green,  and  the  sea  lay  broad  and 
blue,  its  breast  swelling  to  the  evening  sun.  The  air 
blew  sweet  over  field  and  cliff,  and  the  music  of  the 
incoming  tide  was  heard  below  tlie  pine-fringed  bank. 
Caius,  however,  was  not  in  the  receptive  mind  which 
appreciates  outward  things.  His  attention  was  not 
thoroughly  aroused  from  himself  till  the  sound  of  harsh 
voices  struck  his  ear. 

Between  the  farmhouse  and  the  barns,  on  a  place 
worn  bare  by  the  feet  of  men  and  animals,  the  farmer 
and  his  wife  stood  in  hot  dispute.  The  woman,  tall, 
gaunt,  and  ill-dressed,  spoke  fast,  passion  and  misery 
in  all  her  attitude  and  in  every  tone  and  gesture. 
The  man,  chunky  in  figure  and  churlish  in  demeanour, 
held  a  horsewhip  in  his  hand,  answering  his  wife 
back  word  for  word  in  language  both  profane  and 
violent. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Caius  that  the  whip  was  in  his 
hand  otherwise  than  by  accident.  The  men  in  that 
part  of  the  world  were  not  in  the  habit  of  beating 
their  wives,  but  no  sooner  did  he  see  the  quarrel  than 
his  wrath  rose  hot  against  the  man.  The  woman 
being  the  weaker,  he  took  for  granted  that  she  was 
entirely  in  the  right.  He  faltered  in  his  walk,  and, 
hesitating,  stood  to  look.  His  path  was  too  far  off 
for  him  to  hear  the  words  that  were  poured  forth  in 


THE  SAD-EYED  CHILD. 


I  to  the 
i  him— 
without 
;ly,  were 
•ew  in  a 
e  farmer 
ras  ugly; 
road  and 

The  air 
ic  of  the 
red  bank, 
nd  which 

was  not 
1  of  harsh 

)n  a  phice 
i\\e  farmer 
jman,  tall, 
ud  misery 
d   gesture, 
emeanour, 
his   wife 
jofane  and 


such  torrents  of  passion.  The  boy's  strong  sentiment 
prompted  him  to  run  and  coUar  the  man  ;  his  judg- 
ment made  him  doubt  whether  it  was  a  good  thing  to 
interfere  between  man  and  wife  ;  a  certain  latent  cow- 
ardice in  his  heart  made  him  afraid  to  venture  nearer. 
The  sum  of  his  emotions  caused  him  to  stop,  go  on  a 
few  paces,  and  stop  to  look  and  listen  again,  his  heart 
full  of  concern.  In  this  way  he  was  drawing  further 
away,  when  he  saw  the  farmer  step  nearer  his  wife  and 
menace  her  with  tlie  whip;  in  an  instant  more  he  had 
struck  her,  and  Caius  had  run  about  twenty  feet 
forward  to  interfere,  and  halted  again,  because  he 
was  afraid  to  approach  so  angry  and  powerful  a 
man. 

Caius  saw  the  woman   clearly  now,  and   how   she 
received  this  attack.     She  stood  quite  still  at  her  full 
stature,  ceasing  to  speak  or  to  gesticulate,  folded   her 
arms  and   looked  'at   her  husband.     The  look  in  her 
hard,  dark   face,  the   pose   of   her   gaunt   figure,  said 
more   clearly   than    any   passionate    words,   "  Hold,   if 
you  value  your  life !  you  have  gone  too  far ;  you  have 
heaped  up  punishment  enough  for  yourself  already." 
The    husband    understood    this   language,   vaguely,   it 
might  be,  but  still  he  understood  enough  to  make  him 
I  draw    back,   still    growling   and    menacing    with    the 
whip.       Caius    was    too    young    to    understand    what 
the   woman    expressed ;    he   only   knew   strength  and 
hveakness    as    physical    things ;    his    mind    was    surg- 
ing  with    pity  for   the   woman    and    revenge    against 
[the  man ;  yet  even   he   gathered   the  knowledge   that 
[for  the  time   the  quarrel   was   over,   that   interference 
was  now   needless.     He   walked   on,   looking   back  as 
he  went  to  see  the  farmer  go  away  to  his  stables  and 


id 


THE  MERMAID. 


!l 


■  I 


tlie  wife  stalk  past  him  up  toward  the  byre  that  was 


lieare 


St  th 


e  sea. 


As  Caius  moved  on,  the  onlv  relief  his  mind  could 


find  at  first  was  to 


ati 


pieti 


exercise  nis  una*, 
how  he  could  avenge  the  poor  woman.  In  fancy  he 
saw  himself  holding  Day  by  the  throat,  throwing  him 
down,  belabouring  him  with  words  and  blows,  meting 
out  punishment  more  than  adecjuate.  All  that  he 
actually  did,  however,  was  to  hold  on  his  way  to  the 
place  of  his  fishing. 

The  path  had  led  him  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Here 
he  paused,  looking  over  the  bank  to  see  if  he  could 
get  down  and  continue  his  w'alk  along  the  shore,  but 
the  soft  sandy  bluff  here  jutted  so  that  he  could  not 
even  see  at  what  level  the  tide  lay.  After  spending 
some  minutes  in  scrambling  half-way  down  and  return- 
ing because  he  could  descend  no  further,  he  struck 
backwards  some  paces  behind  the  farm  buildings,  sup- 
posing the  descent  to  be  easier  where  bushes  grew  in 
the  shallow  chine.  In  the  top  of  the  cliff  there  was  a 
little  dip,  which  formed  an  excellent  place  for  an  out- 
side cellar  or  root-house  for  such  farm  stores  as  must  be 
buried  deep  beneath  the  snow  against  the  frost  of  win- 
ter. The  rough  door  of  such  a  cellar  appeared  in  the 
side  of  this  small  declivitv,  and  as  Caius  came  round 
the  back  of  the  byre  in  sight  of  it,  he  was  surprised  to 
see  the  farmer's  wife  holding  the  latch  of  its  door  in 
her  hand  and  looking  vacantly  into  the  dark  interior. 
She  looked  up  and  answered  the  young  man's  greetintj 
with  apathetic  manner,  apparently  quite  indifferent  to 
the  scene  she  ha*^  just  passed  through. 

Caius,  his  m^nd  still  in  the  rush  of  indignation  on 
her  behalf,   stopped  at   the   sight   of  her,  wondering 


THE  t<AD-EYED  CHILD. 


9 


ud  could 
picturing 
fancy  lie 
*ving  liim 
s,  meting 
that  he 
ay  to  the 

lifF.    Here 
he  could 
shore,  but 
could  not 
•  spending 
,nd  return - 
he   struck 
dings,  sup- 
?s  grew  in 
here  was  a 
or  an  out- 
as  must  be 
st  of  win- 
red  in  the 
me  round 
rprised  to 
its  door  in 
■k  interior. 
|i's  greeting 
ifferent  to 


what  he  could  do  or  say  to  express  the  wild  pity  that 
s.irged  within  him. 

But  the  woman  said,  "  The  lido's  late  to-night,"  ex- 
actly as  she  might  have  remarked  with  dry  civility  that 
it  was  tine  weather. 

"  Yes,"  said  Caius,  "  I  suppose  it  will  be." 

She  wiis  looking  into  the  cellar,  not  towards  the  edge 
of  the  bank. 

"  With  a  decent  strong  tide,"  she  remarked,  "  you 
can  hear  the  waVes  in  this  cave." 

Whereupon  she  walked  slowly  ])ast  him  back  toward 
her  house.  Caius  took  the  precaution  to  step  after  her 
round  the  end  of  the  byre,  just  to  see  that  her  husband 
was  not  lying  in  wait  for  her  there.  There  was  no  one 
to  be  seen  but  the  children  at  a  distance,  still  swinging 
on  the  gate,  and  a  labourer  who  was  driving  some  cows 
from  the  field. 

Caius  slipped  down  on  to  the  red  shore,  and  found 
himself  in  a  wide  semicircular  bay,  near  the  point  wdiich 
ended  it  on  this  side.  He  crept  round  the  bay  inwards 
for  half  a  mile,  till  he  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  creek 
to  which  he  was  bound.  iVU  the  long  spring  evening  he 
sat  angling  for  the  speckled  sea-trout,  until  the  dusk  fell 
and  the  blue  water  turned  gray,  and  he  could  no  longer 
see  the  ruddy  colour  of  the  rock  on  which  he  sat.  All 
the  long  spring  evening  the  trout  rose  to  his  fly  one  by 
one,  and  were  landc '  in  his  basket  easily  enough,  and 
soft-throated  frogs  piped  to  him  from  ponds  in  the  fields 
behind,  and  the  smell  of  budding  verdui'e  from  the  land 
mingled  with  the  breeze  from  the  sea.  But  Caius  was 
not  happy ;  he  was  brooding  over  the  misery  suggested 
by  what  he  had  just  seen,  breathing  his  mind  after  its 
unusual  rush  of  emotion,  and   indulging  its  indignant 


.!i     ! 


i 


10 


THE  MERMAID. 


melancholy.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  wonder  much 
why  the  object  of  his  pity  had  made  that  quick  errand 
to  the  cellar  in  the  chine,  or  why  she  had  taken  interest 
in  the  height  of  the  tide.  He  supposed  her  to  be  in- 
wardly distracted  by  her  misery.  IShe  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  strange  woman. 


"1 


CHAPTER   III. 


LOST   IN   THE   SEA. 


M 


There  was  no  moon  tliat  night.  When  the  dark- 
ness began  to  gather  swiftly,  Cains  swung  his  basket  of 
iish  and  his  tackle  over  his  shoulder  and  tramped  home- 
ward, llis  preference  was  to  go  round  by  the  road  and 
avoid  the  Day  farm ;  then  he  thought  it  might  be  his 
duty  to  go  that  way,  because  it  might  chance  that  the 
woman  needed  protection  as  he  passed.  It  is  much 
easier  to  give  such  protection  in  intention  than  in  deed ; 
but,  as  it  happened,  the  deed  was  not  required.  The 
farmstead  was  perfectly  still  as  he  went  by  it 
again. 

He  went  on  half  a  mile,  passing  only  such  friendly 
persons  as  it  was  natural  he  should  meet  on  the  public 
road.  They  were  few.  Cains  walked  listening  to  the 
sea  lapping  below  the  low  cliff  near  which  the  road  ran, 
and  watching  the  bats  that  often  circled  in  the  dark- 
blue  dusk  overhead.  Thus  going  on,  he  gradually 
recognised  a  little  group  walking  in  front  of  him.  It 
Y\'as  the  woman,  Mrs.  Day,  and  her  three  children. 
Holding  a  child  by  either  hand,  she  tramped  steadily 
forward.  Something  in  the  way  she  walked,  in  the  way 
the  children  walked — a  dull,  mechanical  action  in  their 
steps — perplexed  Caius. 

2  " 


'i  'i 


12 


THE   MERMAID. 


fif 


j 


i 


t 

i 


He  stopped  up  beside  them  with  a  word  of  neigh- 
bourly greeting. 

The  woman  did  not  answer  for  some  moments ;  when 
she  did,  although  her  words  were  ordinary,  her  voire 
seemed  to  Cains  to  come  from  out  some  far  distance 
whither  her  mind  had  wandered. 

"  Going  to  call  on  someone,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Day  ?  " 
said  he,  inwardly  anxious. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  we're  going  to  see  a  friend — 
the  children  and  me." 

Again  it  seemed  that  there  was  some  long  distance 
between  her  and  the  young  man  who  heard  her. 

"Come  along  and  see  my  mother,"  he  urged,  with 
solicitude.  "  She  always  has  a  prime  welcome  for  visit- 
ors, mother  has." 

The  words  were  hearty,  but  they  excited  no  hearti- 
ness of  response. 

"  We've  another  jilace  to  go  to  to-night,"  she  said. 
"  There'll  be  a  welcome  for  us,  I  reckon." 

She  would  neither  speak  to  him  any  more  nor  keep 
up  with  his  pace  upon  the  road.  lie  slackened  sjieed, 
but  she  still  shrank  back,  walking  slower.  He  found 
himself  getting  in  advance,  so  he  left  her. 

A  hundred  vards  more  he  went  on,  and  looked  back 
to  see  her  climbing  the  log  fence  into  the  strip  of  com- 
mon beside  the  sea. 

His  deliberation  of  mind  was  instantly  gone.  Some- 
thing was  wrong  now.  He  cast  himself  over  the  low 
log  fence  just  where  he  was,  and  hastened  back  along 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  impelled  by  unformulated  fear. 

It  was  dark,  the  dark  grayness  of  a  moonless  night. 
The  cliff  here  was  not  more  than  twenty  feet  above  the  ,^ 
high  tide,  which  surged  and  swept  deep  at  its  base.    The 


LOST   IN  THE  SEA. 


13 


leigh- 

,  when 
•  voice 
istance 

Day?" 

riend — 
distance 


0  hoarti- 

she  said. 

nor  keep 
icd  speed, 
Lie  found 

oked  btick 
of  com- 

le.    Some- 
21-  the  low 
3ack  along 
m1  fear, 
iless  night, 
above  the 
base.    The 


grass  upon  the  top  was  short;  youniij  lir-trees stood  hero 
and  there.  All  tliis  Caius  saw.  'Die  woman  lie  couKl 
not  see  at  first.  Then,  in  a  minute,  he  did  see  her — 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  lier  form  outlined 
against  what  liglit  there  was  in  sea  and  sky.  He  saw  her 
swing  something  from  her.  'J'lio  thing  she  threw,  what- 
ever it  was,  was  whirled  outwards,  and  then  fell  into  the 
sea.     With  a  splash,  it  sank. 

The  young  man's  mind  stood  still  with  horror.  The 
knowledge  came  to  him  as  he  heard  the  sjjlash  that  it 
was  the  little  child  she  had  i\mm  awav.  He  tiirew  off 
his  basket  and  coat.  Another  moment,  and  lu;  would 
have  jumped  from  the  bank  ;  but  before  he  had  jumped 
he  heard  the  elder  girl  groaning  as  if  in  desperate  fear, 
and  saw  that  mother  and  daughter  were  grappled  to- 
gether, their  figures  swaying  backwtirds  and  forwards  in 
convulsive  struggle.  He  did  not  doubt  that  the  mother 
was  trvinc:  to  drown  this  child  also.  Another  low  wild 
groan  from  the  girl,  and  Caius  fiung  himself  upon  them 
both.  His  strength  released  the  girl,  who  drew  away  a 
few  paces ;  but  the  woman  struggled  terribly  to  get  to 
her  again.  Both  the  girl  and  little  boy  stood  stupidly 
within  reach. 

"  Run — run — to  the  road,  and  call  for  help  !  "  gasped 
;    Caius  to  the  children,  but  they  only  stood  still. 

He  was  himself  shouting  with  all  his  strength,  and 
holding  the  desperate  woman  upon  the  ground,  where 
;  he  had  thrown  her. 

Every  moment  he  was  watching  the  dark  water,  wliere 
he  thought  he  saw  a  little  heap  of  light  clothes  rise  and 
^  sink  again  further  off. 

..        "  Run  with  your  brother  out  of  the  way,  so  that  I  can 
i  leave  her,"  he  called  to  the  girl.    He  tried  with  a  frantic 


Ik: 


m 


u 


TUE  MEUMAia 


if 


J 


f 


gesture  to  frighten  them  into  getting  out  of  the  mother's 
reach.  He  continued  to  shout  for  aid  as  he  held  down 
the  woman,  who  witli  the  strength  of  insanity  was  strug- 
gling to  get  hold  of  the  children. 

A  man's  voice  gave  answering  shout.  Cains  saw 
someone  climhing  the  fence.  He  left  the  woman  and 
jumped  into  the  sea. 

Down  under  the  cold  black  water  he  groped  about. 
He  was  not  an  expert  swimmer  and  diver.  He  had  never 
been  under  water  so  long  before,  but  so  strong  had 
been  his  impulse  to  reach  the  ohilil  that  he  went  a  good 
way  on  the  bottom  in  the  direction  in  which  he  had 
thought  he  saw  the  little  body  floating.  Then  he 
knew  that  he  came  up  empty-handed  and  was  swimming 
on  the  dark  surface,  hearing  confused  cries  and  impreca- 
tions from  the  shore.  He  wanted  to  dive  and  seek  again 
for  the  child  below,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  this 
without  a  place  to  leap  from.  He  let  himself  sink,  but 
he  was  out  of  breath.  He  gasped  and  inhaled  the  water, 
and  then,  for  dear  life's  sake,  he  swam  to  keep  his  head 
above  it. 

The  water  had  cooled  his  excitement ;  a  feeling  of 
utter  helplessness  and  misery  came  over  kim.  So  strong 
was  his  pity  for  the  little  sad-eyed  child  that  he  was 
almost  willing  to  die  in  seeking  her ;  but  all  hope  of 
finding  was  forsaking  him.  He  still  swam  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  he  thought  the  child  drifted  as  she  rose 
and  sank.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  be  surprised  that 
she  had  drifted  so  far  until  he  realized  that  he  was  out 
of  hear'ag  of  the  sounds  from  the  shore.  His  own 
swimming,  he  well  knew,  could  never  have  taken  him  so 
far  and  fast.  There  was  a  little  sandy  island  lying 
about  three  hundred  yards  out.     At  first  he  hoped  to 


I  ■• 


LOST   IN  THE  SEA. 


15 


0  do  tliis 
sink,  but 
\^Q  water, 
bis  head 

feeling  of 
[so  strong 
lat  he  was 


strike  the  shallows  near  it  quickly,  but  found  that  the 
current  of  the  now  receding  tide  was  racing  down  the 
channel  between  the  island  and  the  shore,  out  to  the 
oj)en  sea.  That  little  body  was,  no  doubt,  being  sucked 
outward  in  this  rush  of  water — out  to  the  wide  water 
where  he  could  not  tlnd  her.  Jle  told  himself  this  when 
he  found  at  what  a  pace  ho  was  going,  and  knew  that 
his  best  chance  of  ever  returning  was  to  swim  back 


again. 


So  he  gave  up  seeking  the  little  girl,  and  turned  and 
swam  as  best  he  could  against  the  current,  and  recog- 
nised slowly  that  he  was  making  no  headway,  but  by 
using  all  his  strength  could  only  hold  his  present  place 
abreast  of  the  outer  point  of  the  island,  and  a  good  way 
from  it.  The  water  was  bitterly  cold  ;  it  chilled  him. 
lie  was  far  too  much  occupied  in  fighting  the  current  to 
tliink  properly,  but  certain  flashes  of  intelligence  came 
across  his  mind  concerning  the  death  he  might  be  going 
to  die.  His  first  clear  thoughts  were  about  a  black  object 
that  was  coming  near  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Then  a  shout  reached  him,  and  a  stronger  swimmer  than 
he  pulled  him  to  the  island. 

"Now,  in  the  devil's  name,  Caius  Simpson!"  The 
deliverer  was  the  man  who  had  come  over  the  fence,  and 
he  shook  himself  as  he  spoke.  His  words  were  an  in- 
terrogation relating  to  all  that  had  passed.  He  was  a 
young  man,  about  the  same  age  as  Caius;  the  latter 
knew  him  well. 

"  The  child,  Jim  !  "  shivered  Caius  hoarselv.  "  She 
threw  it  into  the  water !  " 

"In  there?"  asked  Jim,  pointing  to  the  flowing 
darkness  from  which  they  had  just  scrambled.  He 
shook  his  head  as  he  spoke.      "  There's  a  sort  of  a  set 


I 


fli 


I ; 


ill  i 


I 


i   1 
i   I 


I! 


16 


THE  MERMAID. 


tlic  water's  fj^ot  round  this  licro  place "     He  sliook 

liis  head  a^^'ain  ;  he  sat  half  dressed  on  tlie  edge  of  the 
grass,  })eering  into  the  tide,  a  dark  figure  surrounded  by 
darkness. 

It  seemed  to  Caius  even  tl;en,  just  pulled  out  as  he 
was  from  a  sea  too  strong  for  him,  that  there  was  some- 
thing horribly  bad  and  common  in  tliat  they  two  sat 
there  taking  breath,  and  did  not  plunge  again  into  the 
water  to  try,  at  least,  to  find  the  body  of  the  child  who 
a  few  minutes  before  had  lived  and  breathed  so  sweetly. 
Yet  they  did  not  move. 

"Did  someone  else  come  to  hoM  her?"  Caius 
asked  this  in  a  hasty  whisper.  They  both  spoke  as  if 
there  wjis  some  need  for  haste. 

"Xoa.  I  tied  her  round  with  your  fish-cord.  If 
yo'd  have  done  that,  yo'  might  have  got  the  babby  the 
same  way  I  got  yo'." 

The  heart  of  Caius  sank.  If  only  he  had  done  this ! 
Jim  Ilogan  was  not  a  companion  for  whom  he  had  any 
respect ;  he  looked  npon  him  as  a  person  of  low  taste 
and  doubtful  morals,  but  in  this  Jim  had  shown  him- 
self superior. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  go  and  look  after  them,"  said 
Jim.  He  waded  in  a  few  paces.  "  Come  along,"  he 
said. 

As  they  waded  round  to  the  inner  side  of  the  island, 
Caius  slowly  took  off  some  of  his  wet  clothes  and  tied 
them  round  his  neck.  Then  they  swam  back  across  the 
channel  at  its  narrowest. 

While  tlie  water  was  rushing  past  their  faces,  Caius 
was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  animal  desire  to  be  on 
the  dry,  warm  shore  again ;  but  when  they  touched  the 
bottom  and  climbed  the  bank  once  more  to  the  place 


LOST   IN   TUK  SKA. 


17 


>ord.     ^f 
iibby  the 

one  this . 
hud  any 
low  taste 
wn  him- 

lem,"  said 
ilong,"  ^le 

Ithe  ishind, 

and  tied 

across  the 


wliero  ho  had  seen  the  child  cast  away,  lie  f()r<?ot  all  \ua 
fight  with  the  sea,  and  thougiit  only  witii  horror  of  the 
murder  dune — or  wa.s  there  yet  hope  that  by  a  iniracde 
the  child  might  be  found  somewhere  alivt^?  It  is  hope 
always  that  causes  panic.     Cains  was  panic-stricken. 

The  woinan  lay,  bound  hand  and  foot,  upon  the 
grass. 

"If  I  couldn't  ha'  tieil  her,"  said  Jim  patronizingly, 
"  I'd  a  (piietened  her  by  a  knock  on  the  head,  and  gone 
after  the  young  un,  if  I'd  been  yo'." 

The  other  children  had  wandered  away.  They  were 
not  to  be  seen. 

Jim  knelt  down  in  a  business-like  way  to  untie  the 
woman,  who  seemed  now  to  be  as  much  stunneil  by  cir- 
cumstances as  if  she  had  been  knocked  as  just  sug- 
gested. 

A  minute  more,  and  Caius  found  himself  running 
like  one  mad  in  the  direction  of  home.  He  cared 
nothing  about  the  mother  or  the  elder  children,  or 
about  his  own  half-dressed  condition.  The  one  thought 
tluit  excited  him  was  a  hope  that  the  sea  might  have 
somewhere  cast  the  child  on  the  shore  before  she  was 
quite  dead. 

Running  like  a  savage  under  the  budding  trees  of 
the  wood  and  across  his  father's  fields,  he  leaped  out  of 
the  darkness  into  the  heat  and  brightness  of  his  mother's 
kitchen. 

'  Gay  rugs  lay  on  the  yellow  painted  floor ;  the  stove 
glistened  with  polish  at  its  every  corner.  The  lamp 
shone  brightly,  and  in  its  light  Caius  stood  breathless, 
wet,  half  naked.  The  picture  of  his  father  looking  up 
from  the  newspaper,  of  his  mother  standing  before  him 
in  alarmed  surprise,  seemed  photographed  in  pain  upon 


t 


i 


i;, 


ill 


•l^li 


I 


^(>!' 


!i 


I  Hit 


He 


18 


THE  MERMAID. 


his  brain  for  minutes  before  he  could  find  utterance. 
The  smell  of  an  abundant  supper  his  mother  had  set 
out  for  him  choked  him. 

When  he  had  at  last  spoken — told  of  the  blow 
Farmer  Day  had  struck,  of  his  wife's  deed,  and  com- 
manded that  all  the  men  that  could  be  collected  should 
turn  out  to  seek  for  the  child — he  was  astonished  at 
finding  sobs  in  the  tones  of  his  words.  Ke  became 
oblivious  for  the  moment  of  his  parents,  and  leaned 
his  face  against  the  wooden  wall  of  the  room  in  a  con- 
vulsion of  nervous  feeling  that  was  weeping  without 
tears. 

It  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  his  parents  that  he 
should  cry — he  was  only  a  child  in  their  eyes.  While 
the  father  bestirred  himself  to  get  a  cart  and  lanterns 
and  men,  the  mother  soothed  her  son,  or,  rather,  she 
addressed  to  him  such  kindly  attentions  as  she  supposed 
were  soothing  to  him.  She  did  not  know  that  her  at- 
tention to  his  physical  comfort  hardly  entered  his  con- 
sciousness. 

Caius  went  out  again  that  night  with  those  who 
went  to  examine  the  spot,  and  test  the  current,  and 
search  the  dark  shores.  He  went  again,  with  a  party  of 
neighbours,  to  the  same  place,  in  the  first  faint  pink 
flush  of  dawn,  to  seek  up  and  down  the  sands  and  rocks 
left  bare  by  the  tide.  They  did  not  find  the  body  of 
the  child. 


u 


!' 


3  blow 
1  coin- 
sboul^i 
shed  ut 
became 
[  leaned 

1  a  con- 
witbout 

5  tbat  be 
5.     Wbile 
^  lanterns 
[itber,  sbe 
>  supposed 
t  ber  at- 
bis  con- 

bose  wbo 

rrent,  and 

a  party  of 

faint  pinli 

and  rocks 

■lie  body  of 


'5 


CHAPTER   IV. 
A  QIIET    Lri'i:. 

Ix  the  nis^ht,  wliile  the  men  were  seokin^^  tlie  mur- 
(lorod  ehihl,  there  were  kindlv  women  wlio  w(>nt  to  the 
liouso  of  tlie  farmer  Day  to  tend  his  wifo.  The  elder 
oliildren  liad  been  found  asleep  in  a  field,  where,  after 
wanderiufj:  a  little  while,  thev  had  succumbed  to  the  in- 
fluence  of  some  drug,  which  had  evidently  been  given 
them  by  the  mother  to  facilitate  her  evil  desii^ni.  She 
herself,  poor  w^oman,  had  grown  calm  again,  her  frenzy 
leaving  her  to  a  duller  phase  of  madness.  That  she  was 
mad  no  one  doubted.  IIow  long  she  might  have  been 
walking  in  the  misleading  paths  of  wild  fancy,  whether 
lior  insane  vasfaries  had  been  the  cause  or  the  result  of 
her  husband's  churlishness,  no  one  knew.  The  husband 
was  a  taciturn  man,  and  appeared  to  sulk  under  the 
scrutiny  of  the  neighbourhood.  Tho  more  charitable 
ascribed  his  demeanour  to  sorrow.  The  punishment  his 
wife  had  meted  out  for  the  blow  he  struck  her  had, 
without  doubt,  been  severe. 

As  for  Cains  Simpson,  his  mind  was  sore  concerning 
the  little  girl.  It  ":as  as  if  his  ntiture,  in  one  part  of  it, 
had  received  a  brui&'^  that  did  not  heal.  The  child  had 
pleased  his  fancy.  All  the  sentiment  in  him  centred 
round  the  memory  of  the  little  girl,  and  idealized  her 

19 


.,5aS8*??s'- 


■(■■■I 


'1! 


20 


THE  MERMAID. 


'  III 


8         I    r 

i 

II 
1 

1    ■      - 

1               1  '' 

f 

i  i 

ll  J 

loveliness.  The  first  warm  weather  of  the  vear,  the  ex- 
quisite  but  fugitive  beauties  of  the  spring,  lent  emphasis 
to  his  mood,  and  because  his  home  was  not  a  soil  eon- 
genial  to  the  ^^''owth  of  any  but  the  more  ordinary  sen- 
timents, he  began  at  this  time  to  seek  in  natural  soli- 
tudes a  more  fitting  environment  for  his  musings. 
More  than  once,  in  the  days  that  immediately  followed, 
he  sought  by  daylight  the  spot  where,  in  the  darkness, 
he  had  seen  the  child  thrown  into  the  sea.  It  soon  oc- 
curred to  him  to  make  an  epitaph  for  her,  and  carve  it 
in  the  cliff  over  which  she  was  thrown.  In  the  noon- 
dav  hours  in  which  his  father  rested,  he  worked  at  this 
task,  and  grew  to  feel  at  home  in  the  pluce  and  its 
surroundings. 

The  earth  in  this  place,  as  in  others,  showed  red,  the 
colour  of  red  jasper,  wherever  its  fjice  was  not  covered 
by  green  grass  or  blue  water.  Just  here,  where  the 
mother  had  songht  out  a  precipice  under  Avhich  the  tide 
lay  deep,  there  was  a  natural  water- wall  of  red  sandstone, 
rubbed  and  corrugated  by  the  waves.  This  Avail  of  rock 
extended  but  a  little  way,  and  ended  in  a  sharp  jutting 
point. 

The  little  island  that  stood  out  toward  the  open  sea 
had  sands  of  red  gold ;  level  it  was  and  covered  with 
green  bushes,  its  sandy  beach  surrounding  it  like  a 
ring. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  jutting  point  a  bluff  of  red 
clay  and  crumbling  rock  continued  round  i\  wide  bay. 
Where  the  rim  of  the  blue  water  lay  thin  on  this  beach 
there  showed  a  purple  band,  shading  upward  into  the 
dark  jasper  red  of  damp  earth  in  the  lower  cliff.  The 
upper  part  of  the  cliff  was  very  dry,  and  the  earth  was 
pink,  a  bright  earthen  pink.     This  ribbon  of  shaded 


A  QUIET  LIFE. 


21 


ic  ex- 
phasis 

[  con- 

•y  sen- 
til  soli- 
usings. 
llowed, 
irkness, 
oon  oc- 
carve  it 
iC  Tioon- 
d  at  this 
;  and  its 

\  red,  the 
t  covered 
ivhere  the 
h  the  tide 
uidstone, 
all  of  rock 
,vp  jutting 

open  sea 

|)vered  with 

it  like  a 

luff  of  red 
,,  wide  hay. 
this  heach 
rd  into  the 
i  cliff.    The 
e  earth  wa^ 
n  of  shaded 


reds  lay  all  along  the  shore.  The  land  above  it  was  level 
and  green. 

At  the  other  horn  of  the  bav  a  small  town  stood  ;  its 
white  houses,  seen  through  tlie  trembling  lens  of  evap- 
orating water,  glistened  with  almost  pearly  brightness 
between  the  blue  spaces  of  sky  and  water.  All  the 
scene  was  drenched  in  sunlight  in  those  spring  days. 

The  town,  Montrose  by  name,  was  fifteen  miles  away, 
counting  miles  by  the  shore.  The  place  where  Caius 
was  busy  was  unfrequented,  for  the  land  near  was  not 
fertile,  Jind  a  woocled  tract  intervened  between  it  and  the 
better  farms  of  the  neighbourhood.  The  home  of  the 
lost  child  and  one  other  poor  dwelling  were  the  nearest 
houses,  but  they  were  not  very  near. 

Caius  did  not  attempt  to  carve  his  inscription  on  the 
mutable  sandstone.  It  was  quite  possible  to  obtain  a 
slab  of  hard  building-stone  and  material  for  cement,  and 
after  carting  them  himself  rather  secretly  to  the  place, 
he  gradually  hewed  a  deep  recess  for  the  tablet  and  ce- 
mented it  there,  its  face  slanting  upward  to  the  blue  sky 
for  greater  safety.  He  knew  even  then  that  the  soft 
rock  would  not  hold  it  many  years,  but  it  gave  him  a 
poetic  pleasure  to  contemplate  the  ravages  of  time  as  he 
worked,  and  to  think  that  the  dimpled  child  with  the 
sunny  hair  and  the  sad,  beautiful  eyes  had  only  gone 
before,  that  his  tablet  would  some  time  be  washed  away 
by  the  same  devouring  sea,  and  that  in  the  sea  of  time 
ho,  too,  would  sink  before  many  years  and  be  forgotten. 

The  short  elegy  he  wrote  was  a  bad  mixture  of  an- 

icient  and  modern  thought  as  to  substance,  figures,  and 

literary  form,  for  the  boy  had  just  been  dipping  into 

Iclassics  at  school,  while  he  was  bv  habit  of  mind  a  Puri- 

Itan.     His  composition  was  one  at  which  pagan  god  and 


"■^•"11  ■'lltillrill 


22 


THE  MERMAID. 


m 


I.  - 


Christian  angel  must  have  smiled  had  they  viewed  it ; 
but  perhaps  they  would  have  wept  too,  for  it  was  the 
outcome  of  a  heart  very  young  and  very  earnest,  wholly 
untaught  in  that  wisdom  which  counsels  to  evade  the 
pains  and  suck  the  pleasures  of  circumstance. 

There  were  only  two  people  who  discovered  what 
Caius  was  about,  and  came  to  look  on  while  his  work 
was  yet  unfinished. 

One  was  an  old  man  who  lived  in  the  one  poor  cot- 
tage not  far  away  and  did  light  work  for  Day  the  farmer. 
His  name  was  Morrison — Neddy  Morrison  he  was  called. 
He  came  more  than  once,  creeping  carefully  near  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  with  infirm  step,  and  talking  about  the 
lost  child,  whom  he  also  had  loved,  about  the  fearful 
visitation  of  the  mother's  madness,  and,  with  Caius,  con- 
demning unsparingly  the  brutality,  known  and  supposed, 
of  the  now  bereaved  father.  It  was  a  consolation  to 
them  both  that  Morrison  could  state  that  this  youngest 
child  was  the  only  member  of  his  family  for  whom  Day 
had  ever  shown  affection. 

The  other  visitor  Caius  had  was  Jim  Hogan.  He 
was  a  rough  youth ;  he  had  a  very  high,  rounded  fore- 
head, so  high  that  he  would  have  aim  )st  seemed  bald  if 
the  hair,  when  it  did  at  last  begin,  had  not  been  ex- 
ceedingly thick,  standing  in  a  short  red  brush  round 
his  head.  With  the  exception  of  this  peculiar  forehead, 
Jim  was  an  ordinary  freckled,  healthy  young  man.  He 
saw  no  sense  at  all  in  what  Caius  was  doing.  When  hej 
came  he  sat  himself  down  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  swung] 
his  heels,  and  jeered  unfeignedly. 

When  the  work  was  finished  it  became  noised  thutl 
the  tablet  was  to  be  seen.  The  neighbours  wondered  notj 
a  little,  and  flocked  to  gaze  and  admire.     Caius  himself 


A  QUIET  LIFE. 


23 


■ed  it; 
,as  the     •  ^ 
wholly 
iide  the 

jd  what 
tiis  work 

poor  cot- 
e  farmer. 
ras  called. 

near  the 
ahout  the 
he  fearful 
Caius,coB- 
i  supposed,    , 
isolation  to 
is  youngest 

-v^'hom  X^'-^y 

[logati.    He 
ainded  fore- 
.med  bald  \i 
jiot  been  ex- 
[brush  round 
]iar  forehead, 
nian.    He| 
Wlien  he! 
'e  cliff,  swung 

ie  noised  that| 

wondered  not 

ICaius  himsell 


had  never  told  of  its  existence  ;  he  would  have  rather  no 
one  had  seen  it;  still,  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  local 
fame  thus  acquired.  His  father,  it  was  true,  had  not 
much  opinion  of  his  feat,  but  his  mother,  as  mothers 
will,  treasured  all  the  admiring  renuirks  of  the  neigh- 
bours. All  the  women  loved  Caius  from  that  day  forth, 
as  ijeing  wondrouslv  warm-hearted.  Such  sort  of  liter- 
ary  folk  as  the  community  could  boast  dubbed  him  "  The 
C.'anadian  15urns,"  chiefly,  it  seemed,  because  he  had  been 
seen  to  help  his  father  at  the  })loughing. 

In  due  course  the  wife  of  the  farmer  Day  was  tried 
for  murder,  and  pronounced  insane.  She  had  before 
been  removed  to  an  asvlum :  she  now  remained  there. 


I  :;,  1, 


'  ! 


I  ; 


11 1 

■  i  . 

w 

•       ! 

i 

»i' 

[' 

!    1 

i| 

■     1 

1 

1 

iJ 

^Bi 

■III 

iiiit 

(.CHAPTER  V. 

SEEN  THROUGH  BLEAR  EYES. 

It  was  foreseen  by  the  elder  Simpson  that  his  son 
would  be  a  great  man.  lie  looked  forth  over  the  world 
and  decided  on  the  kind  of  greatness.  Tlic  wide,  busy 
world  would  not  have  known  itself  as  seen  in  the  mind 
of  this  gray-haired  countryman.  The  elder  Simpson 
had  never  set  foot  off  the  edge  of  his  native  island.  His 
father  before  him  had  tilled  the  same  fertile  acres,  looked 
out  upon  the  same  level  landscape — red  and  green,  when 
it  was  not  white  with  snow.  Neither  of  them  had  felt 
any  desire  to  see  beyond  the  brink  of  that  horizon;  but 
ambition,  quiet  and  sturdy,  had  been  in  their  hearts. 
The  result  of  it  was  the  bit  of  money  in  the  bank,  the 
prosperous  farm,  and  the  firm  intention  of  the  present 
fariuer  that  his  son  should  cut  a  figure  in  the  world. 

This  stern  man,  as  he  trudged  about  at  his  labour, 
looked  upon  the  activities  of  city  life  with  that  same  in- 
ward eye  with  which  the  maiden  looks  forth  upon  Ik  r 
future ;  and  as  she,  with  nicety  of  preference,  selects  the 
sort  of  lover  she  will  have,  so  he  selected  the  sort  of| 
greatness  which  should  befall  his  son.  The  stuff  of  this 
vision  was,  as  must  always  be,  of  such  sort  as  had  enterctll 
his  mind  in  the  course  of  his  limited  experience.  Hi:! 
grandfather  had  been  an  Englishman,  and  it  was  knovvr 

24 


SEEN  THROUGH  BLEAR  EYES. 


25 


that  lus  son 
ver  tbe  world 
.^,c  wide,  busy 
J,  in  the  mind 
elder  Simpson 
ve  island.    H^s 
le  acres,  looked 
nd  green,  when 

them  had  felt 
at  horizon  •,  hut 
in  their  hearts, 
the  hank,  tlie 

of  the  present 

n  the  world. 

,t  at  his  labour, 

ith  that  same  m- 
forth  nponlun- 

•rence,  selects  the 

,cted  the  sort  oil 
The  stuff  of  thu 

aortas  had  entern^ 

experience,     il^j 
atiditwasknowi^ 


1 


that  one  of  the  sons  had  been  a  notable  plivt^ic'ian  in  the 
city  of  London  :  Caius  must  become  a  notable  physician. 
His  newspaper  told  him  of  honours  taken  at  the  L^niver- 
sity  of  Montreal  by  young  men  of  the  medical  school ; 
therefore,  Cains  was  to  stndv  and  take  honours.  It  was 
nothing  to  him  that  his  neighbours  did  not  send  their 
sons  so  far  afield  ;  he  came  of  educated  stock  himself. 
The  future  of  Cains  was  prearranged,  and  Cains  did  not 
(^ainsav  the  arran icemen t. 

That  autumn  the  lad  w^ent  awav  from  home  to  a  citv 
which  is,  withont  doubt,  a  very  beautiful  city,  and  joined 
the  ranks  of  students  in  a  medical  school  which  for  size 
and  thorough  work  is  not  to  be  despised.  He  was  not 
slow  to  drink  in  the  new  ideas  which  a  first  introduction 
to  modern  science,  and  a  new  view  of  the  relations  of 
most  things,  brought  to  his  mind. 

In  the  first  vears  Cains  came  home  for  his  summer 
vacations,  and  helped  his  father  upon  the  farm.  The 
old  man  had  money,  but  he  had  no  habit  of  spending  it, 
and  expenditure,  like  economy,  is  a  practice  to  be  ac- 
quired. When  Cains  came  the  third  time  for  the  long 
summer  holiday,  something  happened. 

He  did  not  now  often  walk  in  the  direction  of  the 
Day  farm ;  there  was  no  necessity  to  take  him  there, 
only  sentiment.  He  was  by  this  time  ashamed  of  the 
emblazonment  of  his  poetic  effort  npon  tlie  clilf.  He 
was  not  ashamed  of  the  sentiment  which  had  prompted 
it,  but  he  was  ashamed  of  its  exhibition.  He  still  thought 
ttonderly  of  the  little  child  that  was  lost,  and  once  in  a 
[long  while  he  visited  the  place  where  his  tablet  was,  as  he 
ivould  have  visited  a  grave. 

One  summer  evening  he  sauntered  through  the  wood 
nd  down  the  road  by  the  sea  on  this  errand.     Before 


mam 


Mi     ► 


!  iilii 


t 


;:[! 


I . 


26 


THE  MERMAID. 


going  to  the  shore,  he  stopped  at  the  cottage  wliere  the 
old  hibourer,  Morrison,  lived. 

Tli'3re  was  something  to  gossip  about,  for  Day^s  wife 
had  been  sent  from  the  asylum  as  cured,  and  her  hus- 
band had  been  permitted  to  take  her  home  again  on 
condition  tliat  no  young  or  weak  i:)erson  sliould  renuiin 
in  the  house  with  her.  He  had  sent  liis  two  remaining 
children  to  be  brought  up  by  a  relative  in  the  West. 
People  said  he  could  get  more  work  out  of  his  wife  than 
out  of  the  children,  and,  furthermore,  it  saved  his  having 
to  pay  for  her  board  elsewhere.  The  woman  had  been 
at  home  almost  a  twelvemonth,  and  Cains  had  some 
natural  interest  in  questioning  Morrison  as  to  her  welfare 
and  general  demeanour.  The  strange  gaunt  creature 
had  for  his  imagination  very  much  the  fascination  that 
a  ghost  would  have  had.  We  care  to  hear  all  about  a 
ghost,  however  trivial  the  details  may  be,  but  we  desire 
no  personal  contact.  Caius  had  no  wish  to  meet  this 
woman,  for  whom  he  felt  rei)ulsion,  but  he  would  have 
been  interested  to  hear  Neddy  Morrison  describe  her 
least  action,  for  Neddy  was  almost  the  only  person  who 
had  constant  access  to  her  house. 

Morrison,  however,  had  very  little  to  tell  about  Mrs. 
Day.  She  had  come  home,  and  was  living  very  much 
as  she  had  lived  before.  The  absence  of  her  children  did 
not  appear  to  make  great  dilTerence  in  her  dreary  life. 
The  old  labourer  could  not  say  that  her  husband  treated 
her  kindly  or  unkindly.  He  was  not  willing  to  aflirni 
that  she  was  glad  to  be  out  of  the  asylum,  or  that  she 
was  sorry.  To  the  old  man's  imagination  Mrs.  Day  was 
not  an  interesting  object;  his  interest  had  always  been 
centred  upon  the  children.  It  was  of  them  he  talked 
chiefly  now,   telling  of  letters  that  their  father  had 


*. 


SEEN  THROUGH  BLEAR  EYES. 


jre 


y's 


wife 

er  bus- 
iT'ciiu  on 
[  remain 
uvcviuing 
be  ^Vest. 
^vife  than 
is  having 
had  been 
had  some 
lei*  welfare 
t  crcatnrc 
uition  that 
tU  about  a 
twc  dcsii-e 
)  meet  this 
,voidd  have 
leseribe  iiev 
person  who 

I  about  Mrs. 
very  much 
children  did 
•  dreary  life, 
iband  treated 
big  to  amnu 
or  that  she 
Mrs.  Day  was 
always  been 
em  he  talked 
r  father  had 


received  from  them,  and  of  the  art  by  which  he,  ^Forrison, 
liad  sometimes  contrived  to  make  the  taciturn  Day  show 
him  tlieir  contents.  The  interest  of  passive  benevolence 
which  the  young  medical  student  gave  to  Morrison's 
account  of  these  cliildren,  wlio  liad  grown  quite  beyond 
tiie  age  when  cliildren  are  pretty  and  interesting,  would 
soon  have  been  exhausted  luid  the  account  been  long ; 
but  it  happened  that  the  old  man  had  a  more  startling 
communication  to  make,  which  cut  short  his  go.ssip  about 
his  master's  family. 

He  liad  been  standing  so  far  at  the  door  of  liis  little 
wooden  house.  His  old  wife  was  moving  at  lier  house- 
hold work  within.  Cains  stood  outside.  The  house 
was  a  little  back  from  the  road  in  an  open  space ;  near 
it  was  a  pile  of  firewood,  a  saw-horse  and  chopping-block, 
with  their  accompanying  carpet  of  chips,  and  such  pots, 
kettles,  and  household  utensils  as  Mrs.  Morrison  pre- 
ferred to  keep  out  of  doors. 

When  old  Morrison  came  to  the  more  exciting  part 
of  his  gossip,  he  looked  Oaius  in  the  breast,  and  indicated 
by  a  backward  movement  of  his  elbow  that  the  old  wife's 
[presence  hampered  his  talk.  Then  he  came  out  with 
an  artfully  simulated  interest  in  the  weather,  and,  nudg- 
[ing  Cuius  at  intervals,  apparently  to  enforce  silence  on 
to})ic  concerning  which  the  young  man  as  yet  knew 
lothing,  he  wended  his  way  with  him  along  a  path  tlirough 
thicket  of  young  fir-trees  which  bordered  the  road. 
The  two  men  were  going  towards  tliat  part  of  the 
Ihore  to  which  Caius  was  bound.  They  reached  the 
ilace  where  the  child  had  been  drowned  before  the  com- 
uuication  was  made,  and  stood  together,  like  a  picture 
the  personification  of  age  and  youth,  upon  the  top  of 
le  grassy  cliff. 
3 


M 


<{  I 


:!iP!i:. 


:iil    : 


I  hi  I 


I  i::'- 


'  »     '     I 


111 


28 


THE  MERMAID. 


"  You'll  not  believe  me,"  said  the  oh]  man,  with  ex- 
citement obviously  growing  within  him,  "  but  I  tell  you, 
young  sir,  I've  sat  jist  here  behind  those  near  bushes 
like,  and  watched  the  creatur  for  an  hour  at  a 
time." 

"  What  was  it  you  watched  ?  "  asked  Caius,  superior 
to  the  other's  excitement. 

"  I  tell  you,  it  was  a  girl  in  the  sea ;  and  more  than 
that^— she  was  half  a  fish." 

The  mind  of  Caius  was  now  entirely  scornful. 

"  You  don't  believe  me,"  said  tlie  old  man,  nudging 
him  again. 

But  Caius  was  polite. 

"Well,  now" — good-humouredly — "what  did  you 
see?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  jist  what  I  saw."  (The  old  man's  ex- 
citement was  growing.)  "  You  understand  that  from 
the  top  here  you  can  see  across  the  bay,  and  across  to  the 
island  and  out  to  sea ;  but  you  can't  see  the  shore  under 
the  rocky  point  where  it  turns  round  the  farm  there 
into  the  bay,  and  you  can't  see  the  other  shore  of  the 
island  for  the  bushes  on  it." 

"  In  other  words,  you  can  see  everything  that's  before 
your  eyes,  but  you  can't  see  round  a  corner." 

The  old  man  had  some  perception  that  Caius  was 
humorous.  "  Y'^ou  believe  me  that  far,"  he  said,  with  ti 
weak,  excited  cackle  of  a  laugh.  "  Well,  don't  go  for  to 
repeat  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  further,  for  I'll  not 
have  my  old  woman  frightened,  and  I'll  not  have  Jim 
Hogan  and  the  fellows  he  gets  round  him  belabouring 
the  thing  with  stones." 

"  Heaven  forbid  ! "  A  gleam  of  amusement  flitted 
through  the  mind  of  Caius  at  the  thought  of  the  side- 


^ 


SEEN  THROUGH  BLEAR  EYES. 


29 


\\  cx- 

1  you, 

at    a 

re  tbau 

1. 
nuelgi"g 

did  yo^^ 

man's  ex- 
that  from 
jross  to  the 
lore  uu^^i^' 
arm  there 
ore  of  the 

kat's  before 

It  Cains  was 
isaid,  with  a 
In't  go  for  to 

for  VW  r^^'t 
lot  have  Ji"^ 

belabouring 

.ment  flitt^"^^ 
of  the  side- 


litrht  tliirf  threw  on  Jim's  character.  For  Jim  was  not 
incapable  of  casting  stones  at  even  so  rare  a  curiosity  as 
a  mermaid. 

"Now,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he  huighed  again  his 
weak,  wheezy  laugh,  "if  i/oi(  told  mr,  iVl  not  believe 
it ;  but  I  saw  it  as  sure  as  1  stand  here,  and  if  this 
was  my  dying  hour,  sir,  I'd  say  tiie  same.  The  first 
time  it  was  one  morning  that  I  got  up  very  early — I 
don't  jist  remember  the  reason,  but  it  was  before  sun- 
up, and  I  was  walking  along  here,  and  the  tide  was  out, 
and  between  me  and  the  island  I  saw  what  I  thought 
;  was  a  person  swimming  in  the  water,  and  I  thought  to 
myself,  '  It's  queer,  for  there's  no  one  about  these  parts 
that  has  a  liking  for  the  water.'  But  when  I  was 
younger,  at  Pictou  once,  I  saw  the  fine  folks  ducking 
themselves  in  flannel  sarks,  at  what  they  called  a  'bath- 
■  ing-place,'  so  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  was  that  it 
(^  was  something  like  that.  And  then  I  stood  here,  jist 
I  about  where  you  are  now,  and  the  woman  in  the  water 

I  she  saw  me " 

"  Now,  how  do  you  know  it  was  a  woman?"  asked 
fCaius. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know  for  certain  that  day  anything, 
Ifor  she  was  a  good  way  off,  near  the  island,  and  she  no 
ii^fiooner  saw  me  than  she  turned  and  made  tracks  for  the 
back  of  the  island  where  I  couldn't  see  her.  But  I  tell 
^ou  this,  young  sir,  no  woman  or  man  either  ever  swam 
as  she  swam.  Have  you  seen  a  trout  in  a  qniet  pool 
Wag  its  tail  and  go  right  ahead — how,  you  didn't  know; 
you  only  knew  that  'twasn't  in  the  one  place  and  'twas 
in  t'other?" 
Caius  nodded. 
"  Well,"  asked  the  old   man   with  triumph  in  his 


80 


THE  MERMAID. 


VVi 


4i 


voice,  as  one  who  capped  an  argument,  "did  you  ever 
see  man  or  woman  swim  like  thatV" 

"Ko,"  Caius  admitted,"!  never  did — especially  as 
to  the  wagging  of  the  tail." 

"  But  she  huihi't  a  tail ! "  put  in  the  old  man  eagerly, 
"for  I  saw  her  the  second  dav — that  I'm  comin<f  to. 
She  was  more  like  a  seal  or  walrus." 

"But  what  hecame  of  her  the  first  day?"  asked 
Caius,  with  scientific  exactitude. 

"  Why,  the  end  of  her  the  first  day  was  that  she 
went  behind  the  island.  Can  you  see  behind  the 
island  ?  No."  The  old  man  giggled  again  at  his  own 
logical  way  of  putting  things.  "  Well,  no  more  could  I 
see  her ;  and  home  I  went,  and  I  said  nothink  to  no- 
body, for  I  wasn't  going  to  have  them  say  I  was 
doting." 

"  Yet  it  would  be  classical  to  dote  upon  a  mermaid," 
Caius  murmured.  The  sight  of  the  dim-eyed,  decrepit 
old  man  before  him  gave  exquisite  humour  to  the 
idea. 

Morrison  had  already  launched  forth  upon  the  story 
of  the  second  day. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  telling  you,  I  was  that  curious  that 
next  morning  at  daybreak  I  comes  here  and  squats  be- 
hind those  bushes,  and  a  dreadful  fright  I  was  in  for 
fear  my  old  woman  would  come  and  look  for  me  and 
see  me  squatting  there."  His  old  frame  shook  for  a 
moment  with  the  laugh  he  gave  to  emphasize  the  situ- 
ation, and  he  poked  Caius  with  his  finger.  "And  I 
looked  and  I  looked  out  on  the  gray  water  till  I  had  the 
cramps."  Here  he  poked  Caius  again.  "  But  I  tell 
you,  young  sir,  when  I  saw  her  a-coming  round  from 
behind  the  bank,  where  I  couldn't  see  jist  where  she 


SEEN  Til  HOUGH   BLEAR  EYES. 


31 


lijid  oonio  from,  like  us  if  slic  litul  come  across  the  buy 
round  tli's  i)oiiit  liere,  I  thouglit  no  more  of  tho 
crumps,  but  I  ji.st  sut  on  my  heels,  lookiii^jj  with  one  eye 
to  see  thut  my  old  wonuui  didn't  come,  und  1  wutc^lied 
thut  'ere  thin«]f,  und  it  cume  us  neur  us  I  could  throw  a 
stone,  and  1  tell  you  it  was  a  girl  with  long  hair,  and  it 
iiud  scales,  and  an  ugly  brown  body,  and  swum  about 
like  a  fish,  jist  moving,  without  making  a  motion,  from 
})lace  to  place  for  near  an  hour ;  and  then  it  went  back 
round  the  head  again,  and  I  got  ui),  and  I  was  that  stitT 
ull  day  I  could  hardly  do  my  work.  I  was  too  old  to  do 
much  at  that  game,  but  1  went  again  next  morning,  and 
once  again  I  saw  her ;  but  she  was  far  out,  and  then 
1  never  saw  her  again.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"  I  think  " — after  a  moment's  reflection — "  that  it's 
a  very  remarkable  story." 

''  Hut  you  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
an  air  of  excited  certainty. 

"  I  am  certain  of  one  thing ;  you  couldn't  have  made 
it  up." 

"  It's  true,  sir,"  said  the  old  man.  "  As  sure  as  I 
am  standing  here,  as  sure  as  the  tide  goes  in  and  out, 
as  sure  as  I'll  be  a-dying  before  long,  what  I  tell  you 
is  true ;  but  if  I  was  you,  I'd  have  more  sense  than  to 
believe  it."  He  laughed  again,  and  pressed  Caius'  arm 
with  the  back  of  his  hard,  knotted  hand.  "  That's 
how  it  is  about  sense  and  truth,  young  sir — it's  often 
like  that." 

This  one  gleam  of  philosophy  came  from  the  poor, 
commonplace  mind  as  a  beautiful  flash  may  come  from 
a  rough  flint  struck  upon  the  roadside.  Caius  pondered 
upon  it  afterwards,  for  he  never  saw  Neddy  Morrison 


ai 


32 


THE  MERMAID. 


i  ■ :;;. 


:i<! 


■•■'I 


■..\    '1-  li  ■' 


again,    lie  did  not  happen  to  pass  that  phice  again  that 
summer,  and  during  tlie  winter  tlie  old  man  died. 

Caius  thought  at  one  time  and  another  about  this 
tale  of  the  girl  who  was  half  a  fish.  He  thought  many 
things;  the  one  thing  he  never  happened  to  think  was 
that  it  was  true.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  the  old  man 
supposed  he  had  seen  the  object  he  described,  but  it 
puzzled  him  to  understand  how  eyes,  even  though  so 
dim  with  age,  could  have  mistaken  any  sea-creature  for 
the  mermaid  he  described ;  for  the  man  had  lived  his 
life  by  tlie  sea,  and  even  the  unusual  sight  of  a  lonely 
white  porpoise  hugging  the  shore,  or  of  seal  or  small 
whale,  or  even  a  much  rarer  sea-animal,  would  not  have 
been  at  all  likely  to  deceive  him.  It  would  certainly 
have  been  very  easy  for  any  person  in  mischief  or  malice 
to  have  played  the  hoax,  but  no  locality  in  the  wide 
world  would  have  seemed  more  unlikely  to  be  the  scene 
of  such  a  game ;  for  who  performs  theatricals  to  amuse 
the  lonely  shore,  or  the  ebbing  tide,  or  the  sea-birds  that 
poise  in  the  air  or  pounce  upon  the  fish  when  the  sea  is 
gray  at  dawn?  And  certainly  the  deception  of  the  old 
man  could  not  have  been  the  object  of  the  play,  for  it 
was  but  by  chance  that  he  saw  it,  and  it  could  matter  to 
no  one  what  he  saw  or  thought  or  felt,  for  he  was  one 
of  the  most  insignificant  of  earth's  sons.  Then  Caius 
would  think  of  that  curious  gleam  of  deeper  insight  the 
poor  old  mind  had  displayed  in  the  attempt  to  express, 
blunderingly  as  it  might  be,  the  fact  that  truth  exceeds 
our  understanding,  and  yet  that  we  are  bound  to  walk 
by  the  light  of  understanding.  He  came,  upon  the  whole, 
to  the  coTiclusion  that  some  latent  faculty  of  imugina- 
tion,  working  in  the  old  man's  mind,  combining  with 
the  picturesque  objects  so  familiar  to  his  eyes,  had  pro- 


SEEN  THROUGH  BLEAK  EYES. 


33 


duced  in  him  belief  in  this  curious  vision.  It  was  one 
of  those  things  tliat  seem  to  have  no  reason  for  coming 
to  pass,  no  sufficient  cause  and  no  result,  for  Caius  never 
heard  that  Morrison  had  related  the  tale  to  anyone  but 
himself,  nor  was  there  any  report  in  the  village  that 
anyone  else  had  seen  an  unusual  object  in  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


"FROM   HOUR  TO   HOUR   WE   RIPE- 


?? 


'  ■  !■' 


Hit 


y^ 


'  i!  lii 


The  elder  Simpson  gradually  learned  to  expend 
more  money  upon  his  son ;  it  was  not  that  the  latter 
was  a  spendthrift  or  that  he  took  to  any  evil  courses — 
he  simply  became  a  gentleman  and  had  uses  for  money 
of  which  his  father  could  not,  unaided,  have  conceived. 
Caius  was  too  virtuous  to  desire  to  spend  his  father's 
hardly-gathered  stores  unnecessarily ;  therefore,  the  last 
years  of  his  college  life  in  Montreal  he  did  not  come 
home  in  summer,  but  found  occupation  in  that  city  by 
which  to  make  a  small  income  for  himself. 

In  those  two  years  he  learned  much  of  medical  and 
surgical  lore — this  was  of  course,  for  he  was  a  student 
by  nature  ;  but  other  things  that  he  learned  were,  npon 
the  whole,  more  noteworthy  in  the  development  of  his 
character,  iie  became  fastidious  as  to  the  fit  of  his 
coat  and  as  to  the  work  of  the  laundress  upon  his  shirt- 
fronts,  lie  learned  to  sit  in  easy  attitude  by  gauzily- 
dressed  damsels  undt>i'  sparkling  gaslight,  and  to  curl 
his  fair  moustache  between  his  now  white  fingers  as  he 
talked  to  them,  and  yet  to  moderate  the  extent  of  the 
attention  that  he  paid  to  each,  not  wishing  that  it 
should  be  in  excess  of  tiiat  which  was  due.  lie  learned. 
to  value  himself  as  he  was  valued — as  a  rising  man,  one 

84 


"FROM  HOUR  TO  HOUR  WE  RIPE- 


35 


who  would  do  well  not  to  throw  himself  away  in  niar- 
riasre.  He  had  a  moustache  first,  and  at  last  he  had  a 
board.  He  was  a  sober  vouns^  man  :  as  his  father's 
teaching  had  been  strict,  so  he  was  now  strict  in  his 
rule  over  himself,  lie  frequented  reli.irious  services, 
going  about  listening  to  popular  preachers  of  all  sorts, 
and  critically  commenting  upon  their  sermons  to  his 
friends.  He  was  really  a  very  religious  and  well-inten- 
tioned man,  all  of  which  stood  in  his  favour  with  the 
more  sober  portion  of  society  whose  favour  he  courted. 
As  his  talents  and  industry  gained  him  grace  in  the 
eyes  of  the  dons  of  his  college,  so  his  good  life  and  good 
understand'-  'r  made  him  friends  among  the  more 
worthy  r ■"  /  companions.  lie  was  conceited  and  self- 
risrhteous,  but  not  obviouslv  so. 

When  his  college  had  conferred  upon  him  the  de- 
gree of  doctor  of  medicine,  he  felt  that  he  had  climbed 
only  on  the  lower  rungs  of  the  ladder  of  knowledge.  It 
was  his  father,  not  himself,  who  had  chosen  his  pro- 
fession, and  now  that  he  had  received  the  right  to  prac- 
tise medicine  he  experienced  no  desire  to  practise  it ; 
learning  he  loved  truly,  but  not  that  he  might  turn  it 
into  golden  fees,  and  -i;:  t  that  by  it  he  might  assuage  the 
sorrows  of  others  ;  .0  loved  it  partly  for  its  own  sake, 
perhaps  chiefly  so:  sv  ♦  .ere  was  in  his  heart  a  long- 
enduring  ambition,  whit'-  ''"  )rmed  itself  definitely  into  a 
desire  for  higher  culture,  and  hoped  more  indefinitely 
for  future  fame. 

Caius  resolved  to  go  abroad  and  study  at  the  medical 
schools  of  the  Old  World.  His  professors  Jipplauded 
his  resolve ;  his  friends  e^icouraged  him  in  it.  It  was 
to  explain  to  his  fj.iier  the  necessity  for  this  course  of 
action,  and  wheedlu  i..;;  uld  man  into  approval  and  cou- 


w 


36 


THE  MERMAID. 


N. 


;i|J 


sent,  that  the  young  doctor  went  home  in  the  spring  of 
the  same  year  which  gave  him  liis  degree. 

Caius  had  other  sentiments  in  going  home  besides 
those  which  iinderkiy  tlie  motive  which  we  have  as- 
signed. If  as  he  travelled  he  at  all  regarded  the  finery 
of  all  that  he  had  acquired,  it  was  that  he  might  by  it 
delight  the  parents  who  loved  him  with  such  pride. 
Though  not  a  fop,  his  hand  trembled  on  the  last  morn- 
ing of  his  journey  when  he  fastened  a  necktie  of  the 
colour  his  mother  loved  best.  He  took  an  earlier  train 
than  he  could  have  been  expected  to  take,  and  drove  at 
furious  rate  between  the  station  and  ;  ?  hoiie,  in  order 
that  he  might  creep  in  by  the  side  doo.  d  greet  his 
parents  before  they  had  thought  of  coming  to  meet 
him.  He  had  also  taken  no  breakfast,  that  he  might 
eat  the  more  of  the  manifold  dainties  which  his  mother 
had  in  readiness. 

For  three  or  four  days  he  feasted  hilariously  upon 
these  dainties  until  he  was  ill.  lie  also  practised  all 
the  airs  and  graces  of  dandyism  that  he  could  think  of, 
because  he  knew  that  the  old  folks,  with  ill-judging 
taste,  admired  them.  When  he  had  explained  to  them 
how  great  a  man  he  should  be  when  he  had  been 
abroad,  and  how  economical  his  life  would  be  in  a  for- 
eign city,  they  had  no  greater  desire  than  that  he 
should  go  abroad,  and  there  wax  as  great  as  might  be 
possible. 

One  thing  that  consoled  the  mother  in  the  heroism 
of  her  ambition  was  that  it  was  his  plan  first  to  spend 
the  long  tranquil  summer  by  her  side.  Another  was 
that,  because  her  son  had  set  his  whole  affection  upon 
learning,  it  appeared  he  had  no  immediate  intention  ot 
fixing  his  love  upon  any  more  materhil  maid.     In  her 


FROM  HOUR  TO  HOUR  WE  RIPE- 


37 


timid  jealousy  she  loved  to  come  across  this  topic  with 
him,  not  worldly-wise  enough  to  know  that  the  answers 
which  reassured  her  did  not  display  the  noblest  side  of 
his  heart. 

"  And  there  wasn't  a  girl  among  them  all  that  you 
fancied,  my  lad '? "  With  spotless  apron  round  her  portly 
form  she  was  serving  the  morning  rasher  while  Caius 
and  his  father  sat  at  meat. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,  mother :  I  fancied  them  all." 
Caius  spoke  witli  generous  condescension  towards  the 
fair. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  father  shrewdly,  "  there's  safety  in 
numbers." 

"  But  there  wasn't  one  was  particular,  Caius  ?  "  con- 
tinued the  dame  with  gleeful  insinuation,  because  she 
was  assured  that  the  answer  was  to  be  negative.  "  A 
likely  lad  like  you  should  marry  ;  it's  part  of  his  duty." 

Caius  was  dense  enough  not  to  see  her  true  sentiment. 
The  particular  smile  that,  in  the  classification  of  his 
facial  expressions,  belonged  to  the  subject  of  love  and 
marriage,  played  upon  his  lips  while  he  explained  that 
when  a  man  got  up  in  the  world  he  could  make  a  better 
marriage  than  he  could  when  comparatively  poor  and 
unknown. 

Her  woman's  itistinct  assured  her  that  the  expression 
and  the  words  arose  from  a  heart  ignorant  of  the  quality 
of  love,  and  she  regarded  notliing  else. 

The  breakfast-room  in  wliich  tliey  sat  had  no  feature 
that  could  render  it  attractive  to  Caius.  Although  it 
was  warm  weather,  the  windows  were  closelv  shut  and 
never  opened;  such  was  the  habit  of  the  family,  and 
even  his  influence  had  not  strength  to  break  through  a 
regulation  which  to  his  parents  appeared  so  wise  and 


na 


38 


THE  MERMAID. 


11 


safe.  The  meadows  outside  were  brimful  of  flowers,  but 
no  flower  found  its  way  into  this  orderly  room.  The 
furniture  hrd  that  desolate  sort  of  gaudiuess  which  one 
sees  in  the  wares  of  cheap  shops.  Cleanliness  and  god- 
liness were  the  most  cons]iicuous  virtues  exhibited,  for 
the  room  was  spotless,  and  the  map  of  Palestine  and  a 
large  Bible  were  prominent  objects. 

The  father  and  mother  were  in  the  habit  of  eating 
in  the  kitchen  when  alone,  and  to  the  son's  taste  that 
room,  decorated  with  shining  utensils,  with  its  door 
open  to  earth  and  sky,  was  infinitely  more  picturesque 
and  cheery ;  but  the  mother  had  a  stronger  will  than 
her  son,  and  she  had  ordained  that  his  rise  in  the  world 
should  be  marked  by  his  eating  in  the  dining-room, 
where  meals  were  served  whenever  they  had  company. 
Caius  observed  also,  with  a  pain  to  which  his  heart  was 
sensitive,  that  at  these  meals  she  treated  him  to  her  com- 
pany manners  also,  asking  him  in  a  clear,  firm  voice  if 
he  "  chose  bread  "  or  if  he  would  "  choose  a  little  meat," 
an  expression  common  in  the  country  as  an  elegant 
manner  of  pressing  food  upon  visitors.  It  was  not  that 
he  felt  himself  unworthy  of  this  mark  of  esteem,  but 
that  the  rid  taste  and  the  bad  English  grated  upon  his 
nerves. 

She  was  a  strong,  comely  woman,  this  housemother, 
portly  in  person  and  large  of  face,  with  plentiful  gray 
hair  brushed  smooth  ;  from  the  face  the  colour  had 
faded,  but  the  look  of  health  and  strong  purpose  re- 
mained. The  father,  on  the  other  hand,  tended  to  lean- 
nes;?;  his  large  frame  was  beginning  to  be  obviously 
bowed  by  toil ;  his  hair  and  beard  were  somewhat  long, 
and  had  a  way  of  twisting  themselves  as  though  blown 
by  the  wind.     When  the  light  of  the  summer  morning 


"FROM   HOUR  TO   IIOCR  WE  RIPK- 


80 


his 


ler, 


re- 
lan- 


[ing 


shone  through  tlie  panes  of  clean  ghiss  upon  this  family 
at  breakfast,  it  was  obvious  that  the  son  was  physically 
somewhat  degenerate.  Athletics  had  not  then  come  into 
fashion  ;  Caius  was  less  in  stature  than  might  have  been 
expected  from  such  parents  ;  and  now,  after  his  years  of 
town  life,  he  had  an  appearance  of  being  limp  in  sinew, 
nor  was  there  the  same  strong  will  and  alert  shrewdness 
written  upon  his  features,  lie  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
clear-eyed  and  intelligent,  finer  far,  in  the  estimation  of 
his  parents,  than  themselves ;  but  that  which  rounded 
out  the  lines  of  his  figure  was  rather  a  tendency  to 
plumpness  ciian  the  development  of  muscle,  and  the  in- 
telligence of  his  face  suggested  rather  the  power  to  think 
than  the  power  to  utilize  his  thought. 

After  the  first  glad  days  of  the  home-coming,  the 
lack  of  education  and  taste,  and  the  habits  that  this  lack 
engendered,  jarred  more  and  more  upon  Caius.  Uq 
loved  his  parents  too  well  to  betray  his  just  distress  at 
the  narrow  round  of  thought  and  feeling  in  which  their 
minds  revolved — the  dogmatism  of  ignorance  on  all 
points,  whether  of  social  custom  or  of  the  sublime 
reaches  of  theology;  but  this  distress  became  magnified 
into  irritation,  partly  because  of  this  secrecy,  partly  be- 
cause his  mind,  wearied  by  study,  had  not  its  most 
wholesome  balance. 

Jim  Ilogan  at  this  time  made  overtures  of  renewed 
friendship  to  Caius.  Jim  was  the  same  as  of  old — ath- 
letic, quick-witted,  large  and  strong,  with  his  freckled 
face  still  innocent  of  hair ;  the  red  Iwush  stood  up  over 
his  unnaturally  high  forehead  in  such  fashion  as  to  sug- 
gest to  the  imaginative  eye  that  wreath  of  flame  that 
in  some  old  pictures  is  displayed  round  the  heads  of  vil- 
lains in  the  infernal  regions.    Jim  was  now  the  acknowl- 


bhbB 


40 


THE   MERMAID. 


edged  leader  of  tlie  young  men  of  that  part  who  were 
not  above  certain  low  and  mischievous  nractices  to  which 
Caius  did  not  dream  of  condescending.  Caius  repulsed 
the  offer  of  friendship  extended  to  him. 

The  households  with  which  his  parents  were  friendly 
made  great  merrymakings  over  his  return.  Dancing  was 
forbidden,  but  games  in  which  maidens  might  be  caught 
and  kissed  were  not.  Caius  was  not  diverted ;  he  had 
not  the  good-nature  to  be  in  sympathy  with  the  sort  of 
hilarity  which  was  exacted  fn^n  him. 


CHAPTER   VII. 


(( 


A   SEA    CHANGE. 


.■>  " 


In"  the  procession  of  the  swift-winged  hours  there  is 
for  every  man  one  and  another  which  is  big  with  fate, 
in  that  they  bring  him  peculiar  opportunity  to  lose  his 
life,  and  bv  that  means  find  it.  Such  an  hour  came  now 
to  Caius.  The  losing  and  finding  of  life  is  accomplished 
in  many  ways  :  the  first  proffer  of  this  kind  which  Time 
makes  to  us  is  commonly  a  draught  of  the  wine  of  joy, 
and  happy  is  he  who  loses  the  remembrance  of  self 
therein. 

The  hour  which  was  so  fateful  for  Caius  came  flying 
with  the  light  winds  of  x\ugust,  which  breathed  over  the 
sunny  harvest  fields  and  under  the  deep  dark  shade  of 
woods  of  fir  and  beech,  waving  the  gray  moss  that  hung 
from  trunk  and  branch,  tossing  the  emerald  ferns  that 
grew  in  the  moss  at  the  roots,  and  out  again  into  light 
to  catch  the  silver  down  of  thistles  that  grew  by  the  red 
roadside  and  rustle  their  purple  bloom ;  then  on  the 
cliff,  just  touching  the  blue  sea  with  the  slightest  rip- 
ple, and  losing  themselves  where  sky  and  ocean  met  in 
indistinguishable  azure  fold. 

Through  the  woods  walked  Caius,  and  onward  to 
the  shore.  Neddy  Morrison  was  dead.  The  little  child 
who  was  lost  in  the  sea  was  almost  forgotten.     Caius, 

•       41 


42 


THE  MERMAID. 


I* 


IP' 


thinking  upon  those  things,  tliought  also  upon  the  tran- 
sient nature  of  all  things,  but  he  did  not  think  profoundly 
or  long.  In  his  earlier  youth  he  had  been  a  good  deal 
given  to  meditation,  a  habit  which  is  frecpiently  a  mere 
sign  of  mental  fallowness ;  now  that  his  mind  was 
wearied  with  the  accumulation  of  a  little  learning,  it 
knew  what  work  meant,  and  did  not  work  except  when 
compelled.  Cains  walked  upon  the  red  road  bordered 
by  fir  hedges  and  weeds,  amongst  which  blue  and  yel- 
low asters  were  beginning  to  blow,  and  the  ashen  seeds 
of  the  llame-flower  were  seen,  for  its  flame  was  blown 
out.  Caius  was  walking  for  the  sake  of  walking  and  in 
pure  idleness,  but  when  he  came  near  Farmer  Day's  land 
he  had  no  thought  of  passing  it  without  pausing  to  rest 
his  eyes  for  a  time  upon  the  familiar  details  of  that  part 
of  the  shore. 

lie  scrambled  down  the  face  of  the  clifT,  fov  it  was 
as  yet  some  hours  before  the  tide  would  be  full.  A 
glance  showed  him  that  the  stone  of  baby  Day's  tablet 
yet  held  firm,  cemented  in  the  uiche  of  the  soft  rock. 
A  glance  was  enough  for  an  >bject  for  which  he  had 
little  respect,  and  he  sat  down  with  his  back  to  it  on 
one  of  the  smaller  rocks  of  the  beach.  This  was  the 
only  place  on  the  shore  where  the  sandstone  was  hard 
enough  to  retain  the  form  of  rock,  and  the  rock  ended 
in  the  small,  sharp  headland  \  Mch,  when  he  was  down 
at  the  water's  level,  hid  the  neighbouring  bay  entirely 
from  his  sight. 

The  incoming  tide  had  no  swift,  unexpected  current 
as  the  outgoing  water  had.  There  was  not  much  move- 
ment in  the  little  channel  upon  which  Caius  was  keep- 
ing watch.  The  summer  afternoon  was  all  aglow  upon 
shore  and  sea.     He  had  sat  quite  still  for  a  good  while, 


"A  SKA  CHANGE." 


43 


wlicn,  near  tlie  sunny  ishuid,  just  at  tlie  point  where  he 
hud  been  pulled  asliore  on  the  adventurous  night  when 
he  risked  his  life  for  the  child,  he  suddenly  observed 
what  appeared  to  be  a  curious  animal  in  the  water. 

There  was  a  glistening  as  of  a  scaly,  brownish  body, 
which  lay  near  the  surface  of  the  waves.  Was  it  a  por- 
poise that  had  ventured  so  near?  Was  it  a  dog  swim- 
ming? No,  he  knew  well  that  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  had  any  such  habit  as  this  lazy  basking  in  sunny 
shallows.  Then  the  head  that  was  lying  backwards  on 
the  water  turned  towards  him,  and  he  saw  a  human  face 
— surely,  surely  it  was  human! — and  a  snow-white  arm 
was  lifted  out  of  the  water  as  if  to  play  awhile  in  the 


warm  air. 


The  eyes  of  the  wonderful  thing  were  turned  towaid 
him,  and  it  seemed  to  chance  to  see  him  now  for  the 
first  time,  for  there  was  a  sudden  movement,  no  jerk  or 
splash,  but  a  fish-like  dart  toward  the  open  sea.  Then 
came  another  turn  of  the  head,  as  if  to  make  sure  that 
he  was  indeed  the  man  that  he  seemed,  and  then  the 
sea-maid  went  under  the  surface,  and  the  ripples  that 
she  left  behind  subsided  slowdy,  expanding  and  fading, 
as  ripples  in  calm  waters  do. 

Cains  stood  up,  watching  the  empty  surface  of  the 
sea.  If  some  compelling  fate  had  said  to  him,  "  There 
shalt  thou  stand  and  gaze,"  he  could  not  have  stood 
more  absolutely  still,  nor  gazed  more  intently.  The 
spell  lasted  long :  some  three  or  four  minutes  he  stood, 
watching  the  place  with  almost  unwinking  eyes,  like 
one  turned  to  stone,  and  within  him  his  mind  was 
searching,  searching,  to  find  out,  if  he  might,  what  thing 
this  could  possibly  be. 

He  did  not  suppose  that  she  would  come  back. 
4 


.;  I. 

"1 
>  "I 


■I' 


A 


'  m 


r" 


44 


THE  MERMAID. 


Ih: 


Neddy  Morrison  had  impliod  that  the  condition  of  her 
appearing  was  that  slie  sliouhl  not  know  tliat  she  was 
seen.  It  was  three  years  since  the  old  man  had  seen 
the  siime  apparition ;  liow  mucli  might  three  years  stand 
for  in  tlie  life  of  a  mermaid  ?  Then,  when  such  ques- 
tioning seemed  most  futile,  and  the  spell  that  held 
Caius  was  loosing  its  hold,  there  was  a  rippling  of  the 
calm  surface  that  gave  him  a  wild,  half-fearful  hope. 

As  gently  as  it  had  disapi)eared  the  head  rose  again, 
not  lying  backward  now,  but,  with  pretty  turn  of  the 
white  neck,  holding  itself  erect.  An  instant  she  was 
still,  and  then  the  perfect  arm  which  he  had  seen  before 
was  again  raised  in  the  air,  and  this  time  it  beckoned  to 
him.  Once,  twice,  thrice  he  saw  the  imperative  beck  of 
the  little  hand ;  then  it  rested  again  upon  the  rippled 
surface,  and  the  sea-maid  waited,  as  though  secure  of 
his  obedience. 

The  man's  startled  ideas  began  to  right  themselves. 
Was  it  possible  that  any  woman  could  be  bathing  from 
the  island,  and  have  the  audacity  to  ask  him  to  share 
her  sport  ? 

He  tarried  so  long  that  the  nymph,  or  whatever  it 
might  be,  came  nearer.  Some  twelve  feet  or  so  of  the 
water  she  swiftly  glided  through,  as  it  seemed,  without 
twist  or  turn  of  he?*  body  or  effort ;  then  paused  ;  then 
came  forward  again,  until  she  had  rounded  the  island 
at  its  nearest  point,  and  half-way  between  it  and  his 
shore  she  stopped,  and  looked  at  him  steadily  with  a 
face  that  seemed  to  Caius  singularly  womanly  and  sweet. 
Again  she  lifted  a  white  hand  and  beckoned  him  to 
come  across  the  space  of  water  that  remained. 

Caius  stood  doubtful  upon  his  rock.  After  a  minute 
he  set  his  feet  more  firmly  upon  it,  and  crossed  his  arms 


"A  SEA  CHANGE." 


45 


it 
the 

)Ut 

len 


ite 
Inis 


to  indicate  that  he  Imd  no  intention  of  swimmiiif]^  the 
narrow  sea  in  answer  to  the  beckoning  hand.  Yet  his 
whole  mind  was  tluown  into  confnsion  witli  the  strange- 
ness of  it.  He  thonglit  he  h(;ard  a  wonum's  laughter 
come  across  to  him  with  the  lapping  waves,  and  his  face 
flushed  with  the  indignity  this  olTered. 

The  mermaid  left  her  distance,  and  by  a  series  of 
short  darts  came  nearer  still,  till  she  stopj)ed  again  about 
the  width  of  a  broad  higliroad  from  the  discomforted 
man.  lie  knew  now  that  it  must  be  truly  a  mernuiid, 
for  no  creature  but  a  fsh  could  thus  glide  along  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  certainly  the  sleek,  damp  little 
head  that  lay  so  comfortably  on  the  ripple  was  the  head 
of  a  laughing  child  or  playful  girl.  A  crown  of  green 
seaweed  was  on  the  dripping  curls ;  the  arms  playing 
idly  upon  the  surface  were  round,  dimpled,  and  exqui- 
sitely wh'^e.  The  dark  brownish  body  he  could  hardly 
now  see  was  foreshortened  to  his  sight,  down  slant- 
ing deep  under  the  disturbed  surface.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  indisputable  evidence  of  his  senses  that  this 
lovely  sea  thing  swam,  not  with  arms  or  feet,  but  with 
some  snake-like  motion,  he  might  still  have  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  some  playful  girl,  strange  to  the 
ways  of  the  neighbourhood,  was  disporting  herself  at 
her  bath. 

It  was  of  no  avail  that  his  reason  told  him  that  he 
did  not,  could  not,  believe  that  such  a  creature  as  a 
mermaid  could  exist.  The  big  dark  eyes  of  the  girlish 
face  opened  wide  and  looked  at  him,  the  dimpled  mouth 
smiled,  and  the  little  white  hand  came  out  from  the 
water  and  beckoned  to  him  again. 

He  was  suffering  from  no  delirium  ;  he  had  not  lost 
his  wits.    He  stamped  his  foot  to  make  sure  that  the 


40 


THE  xMERMAID. 


Ill 
jt 


W '' ' 


rock  was  beneath  him  ;  lie  tunic  1  ^boiit  on  it  to  rest  his 
eyes  from  the  water  sparlvles,  and  to  recall  all  sober, 
serious  thought  by  gazing  at  the  stable  shore.  His  eye 
stayed  on  the  epitaph  of  the  lost  child.  He  remembered 
soberly  all  that  he  knew  about  this  dead  child,  and  then 
a  sudden  flash  of  perception  seemed  to  come  to  him. 
This  sweet  water-nymph,  on  whom  for  the  moment  he 
had  turned  his  back,  must  be  the  baby's  soul  grown  to  a 
woman  in  the  water.  He  turned  again,  eager  not  to 
lose  a  moment  of  the  maiden's  presence,  half  fearful 
that  she  had  vanisiied,  but  she  was  there  yet,  lying  still 
as  before. 

Of  course,  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  be  tlie 
sea-wraith  of  the  lost  child;  but,  then,  it  was  wholly 
impossible  that  she  should  be,  and  there  she  was,  smil- 
ing at  him,  and  Caius  saw  in  the  dark  eyes  a  likeness  to 
th^  lons^-remembered  eves  of  the  child,  and  thoun^ht  he 
pall  read  there  human  wistfulness  and  sadness,  in  spite 
of  the  wet  dimples  and  light  laughter  that  bespoke  the 
soulless  life  of  the  sea-creature. 

Caius  stooped  on  the  rock,  ])utting  his  hand  near  the 
water  as  he  might  ^^ave  done  had  he  been  calling  to  a 
kitten  or  a  baby. 

"  Come,  my  pretty  one,  come,"  he  called  softly  in 
soothing  tones. 

The  eyes  of  the  water-nymph  blinked  at  him  through 
wet-friiiffed  lids. 

"Come  near;  I  will  not  hurt  you,"  urged  Caius, 
helpless  to  do  auglit  but  offer  blandishment. 

He  patted  the  rock  gently,  as  if  to  make  it  by  that 
means  more  inviting. 

"  Come,  love,  come,"  he  coaxed.  He  was  used  to 
speak  in  the  sama  terms  of  endearment  to  a  colt  of 


"A  SEA   CHANGE." 


47 


a 


in 


Us, 


at 


to 
of 


which  he  was  fond  ;  but  when  a  look  of  undoubted  de- 
rision came  over  the  face  of  the  sea-maiden,  he  felt  sud- 
denly guilty  at  having  spoken  thus  to  a  woman. 

He  stood  erect  again,  and  his  face  burned.  The  sea- 
girl's  face  had  dimpled  all  over  with  fun.  Colts  and 
other  animals  cannot  laugh  at  us,  else  wo  might  not  be 
so  peaceful  in  onr  assumption  that  they  never  criticise. 
Cains  before  this  had  always  supposed  himself  happy  in 
his  little  Liforts  to  please  children  and  animals;  now  he 
knew  himself  to  be  a  blundering  idiot,  and  so  far  from 
feeling  vexed  with  the  laughing  face  in  the  water,  he 
wondered  that  any  other  creature  had  ever  permitted  hi3 
clumsv  caresses. 

Having  failed  once,  he  now  knew  not  what  to  do, 
but  stood  uncertain,  devouring  the  beauty  of  the  sprite 
in  the  water  as  greedily  as  he  might  with  eyes  that  were 
not  audacious,  for  in  trnth  he  had  begun  to  feel  very  shy. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  asked,  throwing  his  voice 
across  the  water. 

The  pretty  creature  raised  a  hand  and  pointed  at 
some  object  behind  him.  Caius,  turning,  knew  it  to  be 
the  epitaph.  Yes,  that  was  what  his  own  intelligence 
had  told  him  was  the  only  explanation. 

Explanation  ?  His  reason  revolted  at  the  word. 
There  was  no  ex])lanation  of  an  impossibility.  Yet  that 
the  mermaid  was  the  lost  cliild  he  had  now  little  doubt, 
except  that  he  wholly  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses, 
and  that  there  was  a  mermaid. 

He  nodded  to  her  that  he  understood  her  meaning 
about  the  name,  a  id  she  gave  him  a  little  wave  of  her 
hand  as  if  to  say  jood-bye,  and  began  to  recede  slowly, 
gliding  backward,  only  her  head  seen  above  the  dis- 
turbed water. 


n 


iM 


48 


THE  MERMAID. 


"  Don't  go,"  called  Caius,  much  urgency  in  his 
words. 

But  the  slow  receding  motion  continued,  and  no  an- 
swer came  but  another  gentle  wave  of  the  hand. 

The  hand  of  Caius  stole  involuntarily  to  liis  lips,  and 
he  wafted  a  kiss  across  the  water.  Then  suddenlv  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  cliff  had  eyes,  and  that  it  might 
be  told  of  him  at  home  and  abroad  that  he  was  making 
love  to  a  phantom,  and  had  lost  his  wits. 

The  sea-child  only  tossed  her  head  a  little  higher  out 
of  the  water,  and  again  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  mirth 
dancing  in  her  eyes. 

She  beckoned  to  him  and  turned,  moving  away ;  then 
looked  back  and  beckoned,  and  darted  forward  again ; 
and,  doing  this  again  and  again,  she  made  straight  for 
the  open  sea. 

Caius  cursed  himself  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
jump  in  and  swim  after  her  at  any  cost.  But  then  he 
could  not  swim  so  fast — certainly  not  in  his  clothes. 
"  There  was  something  so  wonderfully  human  about 
her  face,"  he  mused  to  himself.  His  mind  suggested, 
as  was  its  wont,  too  many  reasonable  objections  to  the 
prompt,  headlong  course  which  alone  would  have  availed 
anything. 

While  he  stood  in  breathless  uncertainty,  the  beck- 
oning hand  became  lost  in  the  blur  of  sparkling  ripples ; 
the  head,  lower  now,  looked  i  the  water  at  a  distance  as 
like  the  muzzle  of  a  seal  or  dog  as  like  a  human  head. 
By  chance,  as  it  seemed,  a  point  of  the  island  came  be- 
tween him  and  the  receding  creature,  and  Caius  found 
himself  alone. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


BELIEF   IN   THE   IMPOSSIBLE. 


*^? 


Caius  clambered  up  the  cliff  and  over  the  fence  to 
the  highroad.  A  man  with  a  cartload  of  corn  was  com- 
ing past.  Caius  looked  at  him  and  his  horse,  and  at  the 
familiar  stretch  of  road.  It  was  a  relief  so  to  look.  On 
a  small  green  hillock  by  the  roadside  thistles  grew  thick- 
ly -J  they  were  in  flower  and  seed  at  once,  and  in  the  sun- 
shine the  white  down,  purple  flowers,  and  silver-green 
leaves  glistened — a  little  picture,  perfect  in  itself,  of 
graceful  lines  and  exquisite  colour,  having  for  its  back- 
ground the  hedge  of  stunted  fir  that  bordered  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  Caius  feasted  his  eves  for  a  minn^^ 
and  then  turned  homeward,  walking  for  awhile  besiue 
the  cart  and  talking  to  the  carter,  just  to  be  sure  that 
there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange  about  himself  to  at- 
tract the  man's  attention.  The  cart  raised  no  dust  in 
the  red  clay  of  the  road ;  the  monotonous  creak  of  its 
wheels  and  the  dull  conversation  of  its  owner  were  de- 
lightful to  Caius  because  they  were  so  real  and  common- 
place. 

Caius  felt  very  guilty.  He  could  not  excuse  himself 
to  himself  for  the  fact  that  he  had  not  only  seen  so  wild 
a  vision  but  now  felt  the  greatest  reluctance  to  make 
known  his  strange  adventure  to  anyone.     He  could  not 

49 


50 


THE  MERMAID. 


1     1! 


I 


m  M 


precisely  determine  why  this  reluctance  was  guilty  on 
his  part,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that,  although  a  sensible 
man  could  not  be  much  blamed  for  seeing  a  mermaid  if 
he  did  see  one,  such  a  man  would  rouse  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  take  no  rest  till  the  phenomenon  was  investi- 
gated ;  or,  if  that  proved  impossible,  till  the  subject  was 
at  least  thoroughly  ventilated.  The  ideal  man  who 
acted  thus  would  no  doubt  be  jeered  at,  but,  secure  in 
his  own  integrity,  he  could  easily  support  the  jeers. 
Caius  would  willingly  have  changed  places  with  this 
model  hero,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  act  the 
part.  Even  the  reason  of  this  unwillingness  he  could 
not  at  once  lay  his  hand  upon,  but  he  felt  about  his 
mind  for  it,  and  knew  that  it  circled  round  and  round 
the  memory  of  the  sea-maid's  face. 

That  fresh  oval  face,  surrounded  with  wet  curls, 
crowned  with  its  fantastic  wreath  of  glistening  weed — 
it  was  not  alone  because  of  its  fresh  girlish  prettiness 
that  he  could  not  endure  to  make  it  the  talk  of  the 
country,  but  because,  strange  as  it  seemed  to  him  to 
admit  it,  the  face  was  to  him  like  the  window  of  a  lovely 
soul.  It  was  true  that  she  had  Juughed  and  played  ;  it  was 
true  that  she  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  half  a  fish ;  but,  for 
all  that,  he  would  as  soon  have  held  up  to  derision  his 
mother,  he  would  as  soon  have  derided  all  that  he  held  to 
be  most  worthy  in  woman  and  all  that  he  held  to  be  beau- 
tiful and  sacred  in  ideal,  as  have  done  despite  to  the 
face  that  looked  at  him  out  of  the  waves  that  afternoon. 
His  memory  held  this  face  before  him,  held  it  lovingly, 
reverently,  and  his  lips  shut  firmly  over  the  tale  of  won- 
der he  might  have  told. 

At  the  gate  of  one  of  the  fields  a  girl  stood  waiting 
for  him.    It  was  his  cousin  Mabel,  and  when  he  saw  her 


KosltxnAmT;: 


BELIEF  IN  THE  IMPOSSIBLE. 


51 


he  knew  that  she  must  have  come  to  pay  them  a  visit, 
and  he  knew  too  that  she  must  have  come  because  he 
was  at  home.  He  was  not  attached  to  his  cousin,  who 
was  an  ordinary  young  person,  but  hitherto  he  had 
always  rather  enjoyed  her  society,  because  he  knew  that 
it  was  her  private  ambition  to  marry  him.  He  did  not 
attribute  affection  to  Mabel,  only  ambition ;  but  that 
had  pleased  his  vanity.  To-day  he  felt  exceedingly 
sorry  that  she  had  come. 

Mabel  held  the  gate  shut  so  that  he  could  not  pass. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  asked  she,  pretending 
sternness. 

"  Just  along  by  the  shore."  He  noticed  as  he  said 
it  that  Mabel's  frock  had  a  dragged  look  about  the 
waist,  and  that  the  seams  were  noticeable  because  of  its 
tightness.  He  remembered  that  her  frocks  had  this 
appearance  frequently,  and  he  wished  they  were  not  so 
ill- made. 

"  I  shan't  let  you  in,"  cried  Mabel  sportively,  "  till 
you  tell  me  exactly  what  you've  been  doing  for  this  age." 

"  I  have  not  been  serving  my  age  much,"  he  said, 
with  some  weariness  in  his  tone. 

"What?"  said  Mabel. 

"  You  asked  me  what  I  had  been  doing  for  this  age," 
said  he.     It  was  miserably  stu})id  to  explain. 

When  Cains  and  !Mabel  had  sauntered  up  through 
the  warm  fields  to  the  house,  his  mother  met  them  in 
the  front  parlour  with  a  fresh  cap  on.  Her  cap,  and 
her  presence  in  that  room,  denoted  that  Mabel  was  com- 
pany. She  immediately  began  to  make  sly  remarks  con- 
cerning Mabel's  coming  to  them  while  Caius  was  at 
home,  about  her  going  to  meet  him,  and  their  home- 
ward walk  together. 


Ml 


■'i. 


m 


-I 


52 


THE  MERMAID. 


The  mother  was  comparatively  at  ease  about  Mabel ; 
she  had  little  idea  that  Caius  would  ever  make  love  to 
her,  so  she  could  enjoy  her  good-natured  slyness  to  the 
full.  What  hurt  Caius  was  that  she  did  enjoy  it,  that  it 
was  just  her  natural  way  never  to  see  two  young  people 
of  opposite  sex  together  without  immediately  thinking 
of  the  subject  of  marriage,  and  sooner  or  later  betraying 
her  thought.  Heretofore  he  had  been  so  accustomed  to 
this  cast  of  mind  that,  when  it  had  tickled  neither  his 
sense  of  humour  nor  his  vanitv,  he  had  been  indifferent 
to  it.  To-night  he  knew  it  was  vulgar ;  but  he  had  no 
contempt  for  it,  because  it  was  his  mother  who  was  be- 
traying vulgarity.  He  felt  sorry  that  she  should  be 
like  that — that  all  the  men  and  women  with  whom 
she  was  associated  were  like  that.  He  felt  sorry  for 
Mabel,  because  she  enjoyed  it,  and  consequently  more 
tenderhearted  towards  her  than  he  had  ever  felt  be- 
fore. 

He  had  not,-  however,  a  great  many  thoughts  to  give 
to  this  sorrow,  for  he  was  thinking  continually  of  the 
bright  apparition  of  the  afternoon. 

When  he  went  to  his  room  to  get  ready  for  tea  he 
fell  into  a  muse,  looking  over  the  field.^  and  woods  to 
the  distant  glimpse  of  blue  water  he  could  see  from  his 
window.  Wlien  he  came  down  to  the  evenin-^  meal,  he 
found  himself  wondering  foolishly  upon  what  food  the 
child  lost  in  the  sea  had  fed  while  she  grew  so  rapidly 
to  a  woman's  stature.  The  present  meal  was  such  as 
fell  to  the  daily  lot  of  that  household.  In  homely  blue 
delft  cups  a  dozen  or  more  eggs  were  ranged  beside  high 
stacks  of  buttered  toast,  rich  and  yellow.  The  butter, 
the  jugs  of  yellow  cream,  the  huge  platter  heaped  with 
wild  raspberries — as  each  of  these  met  his  eye  he  was 


BELIEF   IN  THE  IMPOSSIBLE. 


53 


wondering  if  the  sea-maid  ever  ate  such  food,  or  if  her 
diet  was  more  delicate. 

"  Am  I  going  mad  ?  "  he  thought  to  himself.  The 
suspicion  was  depressing. 

Three  hours  after,  Cuius  sough  his  father  as  the  old 
man  was  making  his  nightly  tour  of  the  barns  and 
stables.  By  way  of  easing  his  own  sense  of  responsibil- 
ity he  had  decided  to  tell  his  father  what  he  had  seen, 
and  his  telling  was  much  like  such  confession  of  sins  as 
many  people  make,  soothing  their  consciences  by  an 
effort  that  does  not  adequately  reveal  the  guilt  to  the 
listener. 

Caius  came  up  just  as  his  father  was  locking  the 
stable  door. 

"  Look  here,  father ;  wait  a  minute.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say.  I  saw  a  very  curious  thing  down  at  the 
shore  to-day,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  mother,  or 
Mabel,  or  the  men." 

The  old  man  stood  gravely  expectant.  The  summer 
twilight  just  revealed  the  outline  of  his  thin  figure  and 
ragged  hair  and  beard. 

"  It  was  in  the  water  swimming  about,  making  darts 
here  and  there  like  a  big  trout.  Its  body  was  brown, 
and  it  looked  as  if  it  had  horny  balls  round  its  neck : 
and  its  head,  you  know,  was  like  a  human  being's." 

"  I  never  heard  tell  of  a  fish  like  that,  Caius.  Was  it 
a  porpoise  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  know  what  a  porpoise  is  like." 

"  About  how  large  was  it  ?  "  said  the  elder  man,  aban- 
doning the  porpoise  theory. 

"  I  should  think  about  five  or  six  feet  long." 

"  As  long  as  that  ?  Did  it  look  as  if  it  could  do  any 
harm?" 


M; 


Mi 


if- 


54 


THE  MERMAID. 


^  ,j 


"  No ;  I  should  think  it  was  harmless ;  but,  father,  I 
tell  you  its  head  looked  like  a  person's  head." 

"  Was  it  a  shark  with  a  man  stuck  in  its  throat?" 

"  N — n — no."  Not  liking  to  deny  this  ingenious 
suggestion  too  promptly,  he  feigned  to  consider  it.  "It 
wasn't  a  dead  man's  head;  it  was  like  a  live  woman's 
head." 

"I  never  heard  of  sharks  coming  near  shore  here, 
any  way,"  added  the  old  man.  "  What  distance  was  it 
off— half  a  mile  ?  " 

"  It  came  between  me  and  the  little  island  off  which 
we  lost  baby  Day.  It  lay  half-way  between  the  island 
and  the  shore." 

The  old  man  was  not  one  to  waste  words.  He  did 
not  remark  that  in  that  case  Caius  must  have  seen  the 
creature  clearly,  for  it  went  without  saying. 

"  Pity  you  hadn't  my  gun,"  he  said. 

Caius  inwardly  shuddered,  but  because  he  wished  to 
confide  as  far  as  he  might,  he  said  outwardly :  "  I 
shouldn't  have  liked  to  shoot  at  it ;  its  face  looked  so 
awfully  human,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  elder,  who  had  a  merciful  heart 
"  it's  wonderful  what  a  look  an  animal  has  in  its  eyes 
sometimes."  He  was  slowly  shuffling  round  to  the  next 
door  with  his  keys.  "  Well,  I'm  sure,  my  lad,  I  don't 
know  what  it  could  ha'  been,  unless  'twas  some  sort  of  a 
porpoise." 

"  We  should  be  quite  certain  to  know  if  there  was  any 
woman  paying  a  visit  hereabout,  shouldn't  we?  A  woman 
couldn't  possibly  swim  across  the  bay." 

"  Woman  ! "  The  old  man  turned  upon  him  sternly. 
"  I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  fish." 

"  I  said  she  sivam  like  a  fish.    She  might  have  been 


BELIEF   IN   THE   IMPOSSIBLE. 


66 


a  woman  dressed  in  a  fish-skin,  perhaps;  hut  tliere  isn't 
any  woman  liere  that  could  possibly  he  actinf]^  like  that — 
and  old  Morrison  told  me  the  same  thing  was  about  the 
shore  the  summer  before  he  died." 

His  father  still  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  Well,  the 
question  is,  whetlier  the  thing  you  saw  was  a  woman  or 
a  fish,  for  you  must  have  seen  it  pretty  clear,  and  they 
aren't  alike,  as  far  as  I  know." 

Caius  receded  from  the  glow  of  confidence.  "  It  lay 
pretty  much  under  the  water,  and  wasn't  still  long  at  a 
time." 

The  old  man  looked  relieved,  and  in  his  relief  began 
to  joke.  "  I  was  thinking  you  must  have  lost  your  wits, 
and  thought  you'd  seen  a  mermaid,"  he  chuckled. 

"  I'd  think  it  was  a  mermaid  in  a  minute  " — boldly 
— "  if  there  were  such  things." 

Caius  felt  relieved  when  he  had  said  this,  but  the  old 
man  had  no  very  distinct  idea  in  his  mind  attached  to  the 
mythical  word,  so  he  let  go  the  thought  easily. 

"  Was  it  a  dog  swimming  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Caius,  "  it  wasn't  a  dog." 

"  Well,  I  give  it  up.  Next  time  you  see  it,  you'd 
better  come  and  fetch  the  gun,  and  then  you  can  take  it 
to  the  musee  up  at  your  college,  and  have  it  stutfed  and 
put  in  a  case,  with  a  ticket  to  say  you  presented  it.  That's 
all  the  use  strange  fish  are  that  I  know  of." 

When  Caius  reflected  on  this  conversation,  he  knew 
that  he  had  been  a  hypocrite. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  sea-maid's  music. 

At  dawn  Cains  was  upon  the  shore  again,  but  he  saw 
nothing  but  a  red  sunrise  and  a  gray  sea,  merging  into 
the  bhie  and  green  and  gold  of  tlie  ordinary  day.  lie 
got  back  to  breakfast  without  the  fact  of  his  matutinal 
walk  being  known  to  the  family. 

He  managed  also  in  the  afternoon  to  loiter  for  half 
an  hour  on  the  same  bit  of  shore  at  tJe  same  hour  as  the 
day  before  without  anyone  being  the  wiser,  but  he  saw 
no  mermaid.  lie  fully  intended  to  spend  to-morrow  by 
the  sea,  but  he  had  made  this  effort  to  appear  to  skiji 
to-day  to  avoid  awaking  curiosity. 

He  had  a  horse  and  buggy ;  that  afternoon  he  was 
friendly,  and  made  many  calls.  Wherever  he  went  he 
directed  the  conversation  into  such  channels  as  would 
make  it  certain  that  he  would  hear  if  anyone  else  had 
seen  the  mermaid,  or  had  seen  the  face  of  a  strange 
woman  by  sea  or  land.  Of  one  or  two  female  visitors 
to  the  neighbourhood  within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles 
he  did  hear,  but  when  he  came  to  investigate  each  case, 
he  found  that  the  visit  was  known  to  everyone,  and  the 
status,  lineage  and  habits  of  the  visitors  all  of  the  same 
humdrum  sort. 

He  decided  in  his  own  mind  that  ten  miles  was  the 

66 


.1  Hwnn  t^u-* 


THE  SEA-MAID'S  MUSIC. 


57 


>"ti 


utmost  length  that  a  woman  oould  possibly  swim,  but 
he  talked  boldly  of  great  swimming  feats  he  had  seen 
in  his  college  life,  and  opined  that  a  good  swimmer 
might  even  cross  the  bay  from  Montrose  or  from  the 
little  port  of  Stanhojx)  in  the  other  direction ;  and  when 
he  saw  the  incredulity  of  his  listeners,  he  knew  that  no 
one  had  accomplished  either  journey,  for  the  water  was 
overlooked  by  a  hundred  houses  at  either  place,  and 
many  a  small  vessel  ploughed  the  waves. 

When  he  went  to  sleep  that  niglit  Cains  was  sure 
that  the  vision  of  the  mermaid  was  all  his  own,  shared 
only  by  old  Morrison,  who  lay  in  his  grave.  It  was  per- 
haps this  partnership  with  the  dead  that  gave  the  matter 
its  most  incredible  and  unreal  aspect.  Three  years  before 
this  lady  of  the  sea  had  frequented  this  spot ;  none 
but  the  dea('  man  and  himself  had  been  permitted  to 
see  her. 

"  Well,  when  all's  said  and  done,"  said  Cains  to  him- 
self, rolling  upon  a  sleepless  bed,  "  it's  a  very  extraordi- 
nary thing." 

Next  morning  he  hired  a  boat,  the  nearest  that  was 
to  be  had ;  he  got  it  a  mile  and  a  half  further  up  the 
shore.  It  was  a  clumsy  thing,  but  he  rowed  it  past  the 
mouth  of  the  creek  where  he  used  to  fish,  all  along  the 
water  front  of  Day's  farm,  past  the  little  point  that  was 
the  beginninff  of  the  rocky  part  of  the  shore,  and  then 
he  drew  the  boat  up  upon  the  little  island.  lie  hid  it 
perfectly  among  the  grass  and  weeds.  Over  all  the  lim- 
ited surface,  among  the  pine  shrubs  and  flowering  weeds, 
he  searched  to  see  if  hiding-place  for  the  nymph  could 
be  found.  Two  colts  were  pastured  on  the  isle.  He 
found  no  cave  or  hut.  When  he  had  finished  his  search, 
he  sat  and  waited  and  watched  till  the  sun  set  over  the 


a. 


11 J 


>  ':  ■ 


58 


THE   MEIIMAID. 


ill 


1^ 


sea;  but  to-djiy  there  was  no  smiling  face  rearing  itself 
from  the  blue  water,  no  little  hand  beckoning  him 
away. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  go  where  she  beckoned ! " 
mused  Caius.  "Where?  Anywhere  into  the  heart  of 
the  ocean,  out  of  this  dull,  sordid  life  into  the  land  of 
dreams." 

For  it  must  all  have  been  a  dream — a  sweet,  fantastic 
dream,  imposed  upon  his  senses  by  some  inlluence, 
outward  or  inward  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  tiiat  at  the 
hour  when  he  seemed  to  see  the  maid  it  might  have  been 
given  liim  to  enter  the  world  of  dreams,  and  go  on 
in  some  existence  which  was  a  truer  I'eality  than  the 
one  in  which  he  now  was.  In  a  deliljerate  way  he 
thought  that  perhaps,  if  the  truth  were  known,  he,  Dr. 
Caius  Simpson,  was  going  a  little  mad  ;  but  as  he  sat  by 
the  softly  lapping  sea  he  did  not  regret  this  madness: 
what  he  did  regret  was  that  he  must  go  home  and — talk 
to  Mabel. 

He  rowed  his  boat  back  with  feelings  of  blank  disap- 
pointment, lie  could  not  give  another  day  to  idleness 
upon  the  shore.  It  was  impossible  that  such  an  impor- 
tant person  as  himself  could  spend  long  afternoons  and 
evenings  thus  without  everyone's  knowledge.  He  had 
a  feeling,  too,  born,  as  many  calculations  are,  of  pure 
surmise,  that  he  would  have  seen  the  mermaid  again 
that  afternoon,  when  he  had  made  such  elaborate 
arrangements  to  meet  her,  if  Fate  had  destined  them  to 
meet  again  at  all.  No ;  he  must  give  her  up.  He  must 
forget  the  hallucination  that  had  worked  so  madly  on 
his  brain. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure 
of  walking  very  frequently  to  the  spot,  and  this  often, 


THE  SFA-MAID'S   Ml'SIC. 


51) 


i\ 


iu  tiie  early  hours  befuro  brcakfiist,  Ji  time  which  he 
could  dispose  of  as  he  would  without  ooniiuent.  As  ho 
walked  the  beach  in  the  beauty  of  the  earlv  day,  ho 
realized  that  some  new  re<^ion  of  life  had  been  o])ened 
to  him,  that  he  was  feeling  his  way  into  new  mysteries 
of  beatified  thoiight  and  feeling. 

A  week  passed ;  he  was  jigain  upon  the  shore  .oppo- 
site the  island  at  the  sunrise  hour.  lie  sat  on  the  roek 
which  seemed  like  a  home  to  his  restless  sj)irit,  so 
associated  it  was  with  the  first  thoughts  of  those  new 
visions  of  beauty  which  were  becoming  dear  to  liim. 

lie  lieard  a  soft  splashing  sound  in  the  water,  and, 
looking  about  ium,  suddenly  saw  the  sea-child's  face 
lifted  out  of  the  water  not  more  than  four  cr  five  yarda 
from  him.  All  around  her  was  a  golden  cloud  of  sand ; 
it  seemed  to  have  been  stirred  up  by  her  startled  move- 
ment on  seeing  hiui.  For  a  moment  she  was  still,  resting 
thus  close,  and  he  could  see  distinctly  that  around  her 
white  shoulders  mere  was  a  coil  of  what  seemed  like 
glistening  rounder  scales.  He  could  not  decide  whether 
the  brightness  in  her  eye  was  that  of  laughing  ease  or  of 
startled  excitement.  Then  she  turned  and  darted  away 
from  him,  and  having  put  about  forty  feet  between 
them,  she  turned  and  looked  back  with  easy  defiance. 

His  eyes,  fascinated  by  what  was  to  him  an  awful 
thing,  were  trying  to  penetrate  the  sparkling  water 
and  see  the  outlines  of  the  form  whose  clumsy  skin 
seemed  to  hang  in  horrid  folds,  stretching  its  monstrous 
bulk  under  the  waves.  His  vision  was  broken  by  the 
sparkling  splash  which  the  maiden  deliberately  made 
with  her  hands,  as  if  divining  his  curiosity  and  defying 
it.  He  felt  the  more  sure  that  his  senses  did  not  play 
him  false  because  the  arrangement  of  the  human  and 
5 


>  11 


60 


THE   MERMAID. 


Ui  ; 


fishy  substance  of  tlie  apparition  did  not  tally  with  any 
preconceived  ideas  he  had  of  mermaids. 

Caius  felt  no  loathing  of  the  horrid  form  that  seemed 
to  be  part  of  her.  He  knew,  as  he  had  never  known 
before,  how  much  of  coarseness  there  was  in  him«eli. 
His  hands  and  feet,  as  he  looked  down  at  them,  seemed 
clumsy,  his  ideas  clumsy  and  gross  to  correspond.  He 
knew  enough  to  know  that  he  might,  by  the  practice  of 
exercises,  have  made  his  muscles  and  brain  the  expression 
of  his  will,  instead  of  the  inert  mass  of  flesh  that  they 
now  seemed  to  him  to  be.  He  might — yes,  he  might,  if 
he  had  his  years  to  live  over  again,  have  made  himself 
noble  and  strong ;  as  it  w'as,  he  was  mutely  conscious  of 
being  a  thing  to  be  justly  derided  by  the  laughing  eyes 
that  looked  up  at  him  from  the  water,  a  man  to  be  justly 
shunned  and  avoided  by  the  being  of  the  white  arms 
and  dimpled  face. 

And  he  sat  ui)on  the  rock  looking,  looking.  It 
seemed  useless  to  rise  or  speak  or  smile ;  he  remembered 
the  mirth  that  his  former  efforts  had  caused,  and  he  was 
dumb  and  still. 

Perhaps  the  sea-child  found  this  treatment  more  un- 
interestinof  tlian  that  attention  he  had  lavished  on  her 
on  the  former  occasion  ;  perhaps  she  had  not  so  long  to 
tarry.  As  he  still  watched  her  she  turned  again,  and 
made  her  way  swift  and  straight  toward  the  rocky 
point.  Gains  ran,  following,  upon  the  sho'T,  bul  after  a 
minute  h  perceived  that  she  could  disajipear  round  the 
})oint  before,  either  by  swimming  or  wading,  he  'ould 
He  could  not  make  his  way  around  the 
shore ;  his  best  means  of  keeping  her  in 
climb  the  cliff,  from  which  the  whole  bay 
side  would  be  visible. 


get  near  her. 


THE  SEA-MAID'S  MUSIC. 


01 


Like  a,  man  running  a  race  for  life,  he  leaped  back  to 
a  place  where  it  was  possible  to  climb,  and,  once  on  the 
top,  made  his  way  by  main  force  through  a  growth  of 
low  bushes  until  he  could  overlook  the  bay.  But,  lo  ! 
when  he  came  there  no  creature  was  visible  in  the  sunny 
sea  beneatli  or  on  the  shelving  red  bank  which  lay  all 
plain  to  his  view.  Far  and  wide  he  scanned  the  ocean, 
and  long  he  stood  and  watched,  lie  walked,  searching 
for  anyone  upon  tlie  bank,  till  he  came  to  Day's  barns, 
and  by  that  time  he  was  convinced  that  tiie  sea-maid 
had  either  vanished  into  thin  air  or  sunk  down  and  re- 
mained beneath  t!iG  surface  of  the  sea. 

Tiie  farm  to  which  he  had  come  was  certainly  the 
last  place  in  which  he  would  have  thought  to  look  for 
news  of  the  sportive  sea-creature  ;  and  yet,  because  it 
stood  uione  there  in  that  part  of  the  earth,  he  tarried 
now  to  put  some  question  to  the  owner,  just  us  we  look 
mechanically  for  a  lost  object  in  drawers  or  cupboards 
in  which  we  feel  sure  it  cannot  be.  Caius  founa  Day 
in  a  small  paddock  behind  one  of  the  barns,  tending  a 
mare  and  her  baby  foal.  Day  had  of  late  turned  his 
attention  to  horses,  and  the  farm  had  a  bleaker  look  in 
conscquei^ce,  because  many  of  its  acres  were  left  un- 
tilled. 

Caius  leaned  iiis  elbows  on  the  fence  of  the  paddock. 
"lluUo!" 

Day  turned  round,  asking  without  words  what  he 
wanted,  in  a  very  surly  way. 

At  the  distance  at  which  he  stood,  and  without  re- 
ceiving any  encouragement,  Caius  found  a  difiiculty  in 
forming  his  question. 

"  You  haven't  seen  anything  odd  in  the  sea  about 
here,  have  you  ?  " 


K 


62 


THE  MERMAID. 


1 


mi, 


p: 


fob 


"What  sort  of  a  thing?" 

"  I  thought  I  saw  a  queer  thing  swimming  in  the 
water — did  you?  " 

"  Ko,  I  didn't." 

It  was  evident  that  no  spark  of  interest  had  been 
roused  in  the  farmer  by  the  question.  From  that,  more 
than  anything  else,  Caius  judged  that  his  words  were 
true ;  but,  because  he  ^vas  anxious  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  he  blundered  into  another  form  of  the  same 
inquiry : 

"  There  isn't  a  young  girl  about  this  place,  is  there?  " 

Day's  face  grew  indescribably  dark.  In  an  instant 
Caius  remembered  that,  if  the  man  had  any  feeling 
about  him,  the  question  was  the  sorest  he  could  have 
asked — the  child,  who  would  now  have  been  a  girl, 
drowned,  her  sister  and  brother  exiled,  and  Day  bound 
over  by  legal  authority  to  see  to  it  that  no  defenceless 
person  came  in  the  way  of  the  wife  who  had  killed  her 
child !  A  moment  more,  and  Day  had  merely  turned 
his  back,  going  on  with  his  work.  Caius  did  not  blame 
him ;  he  respected  the  man  the  more  for  the  feeling  he 
displayed. 

Vexed  with  himself,  and  not  finding  how  to  end  the 
interview,  Caius  waited  a  minute,  and  then  turned  sud- 
denly from  the  fence,  without  knowing  why  he  turned 
until  he  saw  that  the  constraining  force  was  the  presence 
of  Day's  wife,  who  stood  at  the  end  of  the  barn,  out  of 
sight  of  her  husband,  but  looking  eagerly  at  Caius.  She 
made  a  sign  to  him  to  come.  No  doubt  she  had  heard 
what  had  been  said. 

Caius  went  to  her,  drawn  by  tho  eagerness  of  her 
bright  black  eyes.  Her  large  form  was  slightly  clad  in  a 
cotton  gown ;   her  abundant   black  hair  was   fastened 


THE  SEA-M AID'S  MUSIC. 


63 


rather  loosely  about  her  head.  Her  liigh-boiied  cheeks 
were  thinner  than  of  old,  and  her  face  wore  a  more  ex- 
cited expression ;  otherwise,  there  was  little  difference 
in  her.  8he  had  been  sent  from  the  asylum  as  cured. 
Caius  gave  her  a  civil  "  (iood-day." 

"  She  has  come  back  to  me  ! "  said  the  woman. 

"Who?" 

"  j\Iy  baby  as  you've  put  up  the  stone  to.  I've  allers 
wanted  to  tell  yon  I  liked  that  stone;  but  she  isn't 
dead — she  has  come  back  to  me  I " 

Xow,  although  the  return  of  the  drowned  child  had 
been  an  idea  often  in  his  mind  of  late,  that  he  had 
merely  toyed  with  it  as  a  beautiful  fancy  was  proved  by 
the  fact  that  no  sooner  did  the  mother  express  the  same 
thought  than  Caius  recognised  that  she  was  mad. 

"  She  has  come  back  to  me ! "  The  poor  mother 
spoke  in  tones  of  exquisite  happiness.  "  She  is  grown  a 
big  girl ;  she  has  curls  on  her  head,  and  she  wears  a 
marriage-ring.     Who  is  she  married  to?" 

Caius  could  not  answer. 

The  mother  looked  at  him  with  curious  steadfast- 
ness. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  she  was  married  to  you,"  she 
said. 

Surely  the  woman  had  seen  what  he  had  seen  in  the 
sea ;  bnt,  question  her  as  he  would,  Caius  could  gain 
nothing  more  from  her — no  hint  of  time  or  place,  or  any 
fact  that  at  all  added  to  his  enlightenment.  She  only 
grew  frightened  at  his  questions,  and  begged  him  in 
moving  terms  not  to  tell  Day  that  she  had  spoken  to 
him — not  to  toll  the  people  in  the  village  that  her  daugh- 
ter had  come  back,  or  they  would  put  her  again  in  the 
asylum.     Truly,  this  last  appeared  to  Caius  a  not  nn- 


^i 


n 


m 


il 


u 


64 


THE   MERMAID. 


likely  consequence,  but  it  was  not  liis  business  to  bring 
it  about.  It  was  not  for  him,  who  shared  her  delusion, 
to  condemn  her. 

After  that,  Caius  knew  that  either  he  was  mad  or 
wliat  he  had  seen  he  had  seen,  let  the  explanation  be 
what  it  might — and  he  ceased  to  care  much  about  the 
explanation.  He  remembered  the  look  of  heart-satis- 
faction with  which  Day's  wife  had  told  him  that  her 
child  liad  returned.  The  beautiful  face  looking  from 
out  the  waves  had  no  doubt  wrought  liappiness  in  her  ; 
and  in  him  also  it  had  wrought  happiness,  and  tliat 
which  was  better.  He  ceased  to  wrestle  with  the  differ- 
ence that  the  adventure  had  made  in  his  life,  or  to  try 
to  ignore  it ;  he  had  learned  to  love  someone  far  better 
than  himself,  and  that  someone  seemed  so  whollv  at  one 
witli  the  nature  in  which  she  ranged,  and  also  with  the 
best  he  could  think  concerning  nature,  human  or  inani- 
mate, that  his  love  extended  to  all  the  world  for  her 
sake. 


Ill 


m 


CHAPTER  X. 


TOWED    BY    THE    BEARD. 


Every  morning  Cains  still  took  his  early  way  along 
the  shore,  bnt  on  all  these  walks  he  found  himself  alone 
in  possession  of  the  strand  and  the  vast  bine  of  sea  and 
sky.  It  was  disappointing,  yet  the  place  itself  exercised 
a  greater  and  greater  charm  over  him. 

lie  abstained  from  foolino:  away  his  davs  bv  the  sea. 
After  his  one  morning  walk  he  refused  himself  the  lux- 
ury of  bein^  there  again,  filling  his  time  with  work.  He 
felt  that  the  lady  of  the  lovely  face  would  desi)ise  him  if 
he  spent  his  time  absurdly. 

Thus  some  days  passed;  and  then  there  came  a  night 
when  he  left  a  bed  on  which  he  had  tossed  wakefully, 
aiul  went  in  the  hot  Auo^nst  ni2:ht  to  the  side  of  the  sea 
when  no  one  knew  that  he  went  or  came. 

The  air  was  exceedingly  warm.  The  harvest  moon 
in  the  zenith  was  Hooding  the  world  with  unclouded 
light.  The  tide  was  ebbing,  and  therefore  there  was  in 
the  channel  that  swift,  dangerous  current  sweeping  out 
to  sea  of  which  he  had  once  experienced  the  strength. 
Cains,  who  associated  his  sea-visitant  only  with  the  sun- 
light and  an  incoming  tide,  did  not  expect  to  see  her 
now ;  frequent  disappointment  had  bred  the  absence  of 
hope.     He  stood  on  the  shore,  looking  at  the  current  in 

05 


H 

h 
4 

i 


i 


\-h 


ee 


THE   MERMAID. 


\h  ;i 


rl 
111! 


! 


which  he  had  so  nearly  perished  as  a  boy.  It  was  glit- 
tering with  white  moon-rays,  lie  thought  of  himself, 
of  tlie  check  and  twisting  which  his  motives  and  ideas 
had  lately  received,  and  as  he  thouglit  how  slight  a  thing 
had  done  it,  how  mysterious  and  impossible  a  tlung  it 
was,  his  mind  became  stunned,  and  he  faced  the  breeze, 
and  sim])ly  lived  in  the  sweetness  of  the  hour,  like  an 
animal,  conscious,  not  of  itself,  but  only  of  what  is  ex- 
ternal, without  past  or  future. 

And  now  he  heard  a  little  crooniiii?  sons:  from  the 
waters — no  words,  no  tune  that  could  be  called  a  tune. 
It  reminded  him  more  of  a  baby's  toneless  cooing  of  joy, 
and  yet  it  had  a  rhythm  to  it,  too,  and  both  joy  and  pa- 
thos in  its  cadence.  Across  the  bright  path  of  the 
moon's  reflection  he  saw  her  come.  Her  head  and  neck 
were  crowned  and  garlanded  with  shining  weed,  as  if 
for  a  festival,  and  she  stretched  out  her  white  arms  to 
him  and  beckoned  to  him  and  laughed.  He  heard  her 
soft,  infant-like  laughter. 

To-night  her  beckoning  was  like  a  breeze  to  a  leaf 
that  is  ready  to  fall.  Caius  ceased  to  think  ;  he  only 
acted.  lie  threw  his  cap  and  coat  and  boots  on  the 
shore.  The  sea-child,  gazing  in  surprise,  began  to  re- 
cede quickly.  Caius  ran  into  the  water ;  he  projected 
himself  toward  the  mermaid,  and  swam  with  all  the 
speed  of  which  he  was  capable. 

The  salt  in  his  eyes  at  first  obscured  his  vision. 
When  he  could  look  about,  the  sea-child  had  gone  out 
of  the  track  of  the  moonlight,  and,  taking  advantage  of 
the  current,  was  moving  ra})idly  out  to  sea. 

He,  too,  swam  with  the  current.  He  saw  her  curly 
head  dark  as  a  dog's  in  the  water  ;  her  face  was  turned 
from  him,  and  there  was  evident  movement  in  her  body. 


M#HMM*«MMiWHIHn 


TOWED   BY  T[1E  BEAUD. 


07 


For  tlie  first  time  he  thouglit  lie  perceived  tluit  slie  was 
swimmiiiij  with  arms  and  feet  as  a  woman  must  swim. 

As  for  Cains,  he  made  all  the  effort  that  in  him  hiy, 
and  as  slie  receded  past  the  hne  of  the  island  riglit  out 
into  the  moonlit  sea,  he  swam  madly  after,  reckless  of 
the  fact  that  his  swimming  power  gave  him  no  assur- 
ance of  being  able  to  return,  reckless  of  everything  ex- 
cept the  one  welcome  fact  that  he  was  gaining  on  the 
sea-child.  A  fear  oppressed  him  that  perhaps  this  ap- 
parent effort  of  hers  and  her  slow  motion  were  only  a 
ruse  to  lead  him  on,  that  at  any  moment  she  might  dart 
from  him  or  sink  into  her  familiar  depths.  But  this 
fear  he  did  not  heed  as  long  as  she  remained  in  sight, 
and — yes,  across  the  surfjice  of  the  warm  moonlit  water 
he  was  slowly  but  surely  gaining  upon  her. 

On  he  swam,  making  strenuous  effort  at  speed.  lie 
was  growing  exhausted  with  the  unaccustomed  exercise; 
he  knew  that  his  strength  would  not  hold  out  much 
longer.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  hoped  or  dreamed 
would  come  to  pass  when  he  overtook  the  sea-maiden, 
and  vet  he  swam  for  dear  love,  which  was  more  to  him 
than  dear  life,  and,  panting,  he  came  close  to  her. 

The  sea-maid  turned  about,  and  her  face  flashed  sud- 
denly upon  him,  bright  in  the  moonlight.  Slie  put  out 
a  glistening  arm,  perhaps  in  human  feebleness  to  ward 
him  off,  perhaps,  in  the  strength  of  some  unknown 
means  of  defence,  to  warn  him  that  at  his  peril  he  ap- 
proached her. 

Cains,  reckless  of  everything,  grasped  the  white  wrist, 
and,  stopping  his  motion,  knowing  he  could  not  lie  mer- 
maid-fashion with  head  reared  in  the  water,  he  turned 
on  his  back  to  float,  still  holding  the  small  hand  in  his. 
He  held  it,  and  retained  his  consciousness  long  enough 


It 


1 


i 


68 


THE  MERMAID. 


to  know  from  tliut  time  forth  that  the  hand  had  actually 
been  in  his — a  living,  struggling  hand,  not  cold,  but 
warm.  He  felt,  too,  in  that  wonderful  power  which  we 
have  in  extreme  moments  of  noting  detail,  that  the  hand 
had  Ji  ring  upon  it — it  was  the  left  hand — and  he  thought 
it  was  a  phiin  gold  ring,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
think  of  a  wedding-ring.  Then  he  knew  that  this  dear 
hand  that  he  had  captured  was  working  him  woe,  for  by 
it  he  was  drawn  beneath  the  water. 

Even  then  he  did  not  let  go,  but,  still  holding  the 
hand,  struck  out  to  regain  the  surface  in  one  of  those 
wild  struggles  to  which  inexpert  swimmers  resort  when 
they  feel  the  deep  receiving  them  into  itself. 

It  would  have  been  better  for  him  if  he  had  let  go, 
for  in  that  vehement  struggle  he  felt  the  evidence  of  the 
sea-maid's  power.  He  remembered — his  last  thought  as 
he  lost  consciousness — that  with  the  fishy  nature  is  some- 
times given  the  power  to  stun  an  enemy  by  an  electric 
shock.  Some  shock  came  npon  him  with  force,  as  if 
some  cold  metal  had  struck  him  on  the  head.  As  his 
brain  grew  dull  he  heard  the  water  gurgling  over  him. 

How  long  he  remained  stunned  he  did  not  know.  He 
felt  the  water  rushing  about  his  head  again ;  he  felt  that 
he  had  been  drowned,  and  he  knew,  too — in  that  foolish 
way  in  which  the  half-awakened  brain  knows  the  sup- 
posed certainties  of  dreams — that  the  white  hand  he  had 
essayed  to  hold  had  grasped  his  beard  firmly  under  his 
chin,  and  that  thus  holding  his  head  above  the  surface 
of  the  water,  she  was  towing  him  away  to  unknown 
regions. 

Then  he  seemed  to  know  nothing  again ;  and  again 
he  opened  his  eyes,  to  find  himself  lying  on  a  beach  in 
the  moonlight,  and  the  sea-maid's  face  was  bending  over 


TOWED  BY  THE   BEARD. 


69 


liis.  lie  saw  it  distinctly,  all  tender  human  solicitude 
written  on  the  moonlit  lineaments.  As  his  eyes  opened 
more  her  face  receded.  She  was  gone,  anil  he  gjized 
vacantly  at  the  sky ;  then,  realizing  his  consciousness 
more  clearly,  lie  sat  up  suddenly  to  see  where  she  had 
gone. 

It  seemed  to  him  that,  like  a  kind  enclumtress,  she 
had  transformed  herself  to  break  his  pa>>lon.  Yes,  he 
saw  her,  as  he  had  so  often  curiously  longed  to  see  her, 
moving  over  the  dry  shore — she  was  going  back  to  her 
sea.  But  it  was  a  strange,  monstrous  thing  he  sav/.  From 
her  gleaming  neck  down  to  the  ground  was  dank,  shape- 
less form.  So  a  walrus  or  liuge  seal  might  ai)pear,  could 
it  totter  about  erect  upon  low,  tin  like  feet.  There  was 
no  grace  of  shape,  no  tapering  tail,  no  shiny  scales,  only 
an  appearance  of  horrid  quivering  on  the  skin,  that  here 
and  there  seemed  glossy  in  the  moonlight. 

He  saw  her  make  her  way  toilsomely,  awkwardly  over 
the  shingle  of  the  beach ;  and  when  she  reached  the 
shining  water,  it  was  jit  first  so  shallow  that  she  seemed 
to  wade  in  it  like  a  land-animal,  then,  when  the  water 
was  deep  enough  to  rise  up  well  around  her,  she  turned 
to  him  once  more  a  quick  glance  over  her  shoulder.  Such 
relief  came  with  the  sight  of  her  face,  after  this  mon- 
strous vision,  that  he  saw  the  face  Hash  on  him  as  a  sword 
might  flash  out  of  darkness  when  light  catches  its  blade. 
Then  she  was  gone,  and  he  saw  the  form  of  her  head  in 
the  water  while  she  swam  swiftly  across  the  silver  track 
of  the  moonbeams  and  out  into  the  darkness  bevond. 

Caius  looked  around  him  with  senses  still  drowsy  and 
head  aching  sorely.  He  was  in  no  fairy  region  that 
might  be  the  home  of  mermaids,  but  on  the  bit  of  beach 
from  which  he  had  launched  himself  into  the  water.    His 


m 
m 

m 

if; 


7(> 


THE   MERMAID. 


coat  and  liat  lay  near  him,  and  just  above  the  spot  where 
he  lay  was  the  rude  epitaph  of  baby  Day,  carved  by  his 
own  boyish  hand  so  lon<^  ago. 

Caius  put  his  liand  to  his  head,  and  found  it  badly 
bruised  on  one  side.  His  heart  was  bruised,  too,  partly 
by  the  sight  of  the  monstrous  body  of  the  lovely  sea-child, 
partly  by  the  fresh  exi)eriencc  of  his  own  weakness  and 
incapacity. 

It  was  long  before  he  dragged  himself  home.  It 
seemed  to  him  to  be  davs  before  he  recovered  from  the 
weariness  of  that  secret  adventure,  and  he  bore  the  mark 
of  the  bruise  on  his  head  for  many  a  day.  The  mermaid 
he  never  saw  airain. 


CriAPl  FAl   XL 


YEARS    OF    DISi'UKTIOX. 


Caius  Simpson  took  ship  fiiul  crossed  tlio  sea.  Tlie 
influence  of  the  beautiful  face  renuiined  with  him.  That 
which  liad  come  to  liim  was  tlie  new  birth  of  mind  (not 
spirit),  wliicli  by  the  grace  of  God  comes  to  many  an  in- 
dividual, but  is  more  clearly  recocrnised  and  recorded 
when  it  comes  in  the  life  of  nations — the  opening  of  tho 
inward  eye  to  the  meaning  and  joy  of  all  things  that  the 
outward  senses  have  heretofore  perceived  as  not  per- 
ceivinif  them.  The  art  of  the  Old  World  claimed  him 
as  her  own,  as  beauty  on  land  and  sea  had  already  done. 
The  enjoyment  of  music  and  pictures  became  all-impor- 
tant to  him,  at  first  because  he  searched  in  them  for  tho 
soul  he  had  seen  in  the  sea-maid's  eves. 

Caius  was  of  noble  birth,  because  by  inheritance  and 
training  he  was  the  slave  of  righteousness.  For  this 
reason  he  could  not  neglect  his  work,  although  it  had 
not  a  first  place  in  his  heart.  As  he  was  industrious,  he 
did  not  fail  in  it;  because  it  was  not  the  thing  he  loved 
best,  he  did  not  markedly  succeed.  It  was  too  late  to 
change  his  profession,  and  he  found  in  himself  no  such 
decided  aptitude  for  anything  else  as  should  make  him 
know  that  this  or  that  would  have  been  preferable ;  but 
he  knew  now  that  the  genius  of  the  physician  was  not 


72 


TIIK   MKIiMAII). 


\m 


liis,  Unit  to  do  his  work  Ijecuiiso  it  was  duty,  and  to  at- 
tain tlic  rospt'ctablc  sucooss  wliich  circumstance,  rather 
tiian  mental  pre-eminence,  gives,  was  all  that  he  could 
hope.  This  saddened  him ;  all  his  ambition  revived 
uiKkn*  the  smartinj^  consciousness  of  inferiority  to  hia 
more  talented  comi)anions.  'i'lie  [)leasures  of  his  life 
cjime  to  him  througli  his  receptive  faculties,  and  in  the 
consciousness  of  havin<^  seen  the  wider  vision,  and  being 
in  consequence  a  iu)bler  man.  J5ut  all  this,  which  was 
so  much  to  him  for  a  year  or  two,  grew  to  be  a  less 
strong  sensation  than  that  of  disappointment  in  the  fact 
that  he  could  only  so  meagrely  fullil  his  father's  ideal 
and  his  own.  There  came  a  sense  of  dishonesty,  too,  in 
having  used  the  old  man's  money  chiefly  in  accpiiring 
those  mental  graces  which  his  father  could  neither  com- 
prehend nor  value. 

Three  years  passed.  Gradually  the  memory  of  his 
love  for  the  sea-maid  had  grown  indistinct;  and,  more 
or  less  unconscious  that  this  love  had  been  the  door  to 
the  more  wealtiiy  gardens  of  his  mind,  he  inclined  to 
despise  it  now  as  he  despised  the  elegy  he  had  written 
for  the  child  who  was  drowned.  It  was  his  own  passion 
he  was  inclined  to  forget  and  despise ;  the  sea-maid  her- 
self was  remembered,  and  respected,  and  wondered  at, 
and  disbelieved  in,  and  believed  in,  as  of  old,  but  that 
w^hich  remains  in  the  mind,  never  spoken  of,  never  used 
as  a  cause  of  activity  of  either  thought  or  action,  re- 
cedes into  the  latent  rather  than  the  active  portion  of 
the  memory. 

Once,  just  once,  in  the  first  year  of  his  foreign  life, 
he  had  told  to  a  friend  the  history  of  that,  his  one  and 
only  love-story.  The  result  had  not  been  satisfactory. 
His  companion  was  quite  sure  that  Cains  had  been  the 


VKAUS  OF   DLSCUETIUN. 


78 


subject  of  nil  artful  trick,  and  lio  did  not  fail  to  sug^gest 
tliat  tiie  woman  had  wanted  modesty.  Notliing,  he  ob- 
served, was  more  common  than  for  men  who  were  in 
love  to  attribute  mental  and  piiysical  charms  to  women 
who  were  in  reality  vulgar  and  blatant.  Cains,  feeling 
that  he  could  advance  no  argument,  refused  to  discuss 
the  subject ;  it  was  months  before  he  had  the  same  lik- 
ing for  this  friend,  and  it  was  a  sign  that  what  the  other 
called  "  the  sea-myth  "  was  losing  its  power  over  him 
when  he  returned  to  this  friendship. 

Caius  did  not  make  manv  friends.  It  was  not  his 
nature  to  do  so,  and  though  constant  to  the  few  that  he 
had,  he  did  not  keep  up  any  very  lively  intercourse.  It 
was  partly  because  of  this  notable  failure  in  social  duty 
that,  when  he  at  last  decided  that  the  work  of  })repara- 
tion  must  be  considered  at  an  end,  and  the  active  work 
of  life  begun,  no  opening  immediately  revealed  itself  to 
his  inquiring  gaze.  Two  vacant  positions  in  his  native 
country  he  heard  of  and  coveted,  and  before  he  returned 
he  gathered  such  testimonials  as  lie  could,  and  sent  them 
in  advance,  offering  himself  as  a  candidate.  When  ho 
landed  in  Canada  he  went  at  once  to  his  first  college  to 
beg  in  person  that  the  influence  of  his  former  teachers 
might  be  used  on  his  behalf.  The  three  years  that  had 
passed  without  correspondence  had  made  a  difference  in 
the  attitude  of  those  who  could  help  him  ;  many  of  his 
friends  also  were  dispersed,  gone  from  the  place,  lie 
waited  in  Montreal  until  he  heard  that  he  was  not  the 
accepted  candidate  for  the  better  of  the  two  positions, 
and  that  the  other  post  would  not  be  filled  till  the  early 
spring. 

Caius  went  home  again.  He  observed  that  his  parents 
looked  older.     The  leaves  were  gone  from  the  trees,  the 


m 


r 


74 


THE   .MEKMAID. 


days  were  short,  and   the  earth  was  cold.     The  sea  be- 
tween  the  little  island  and  the  red  sandstone  clilf  was 
tterly  lonely.     Cuius  walked  by  its  side  sometimes,  but 
tlierr-  WHS  no  mermaid  there. 


I 


*  .  I 


Pi  1 


WrtlWIil  ilMHWliI 


BOOK  IT. 


CHAPTER   I. 


THE    HAND   THAT    BECKOXED. 


It  was  evening.  Cains  was  watering  his  father's 
horses.  Between  tlie  barns  and  the  honse  the  space 
was  grass;  a  log  fence  divided  it,  and  against  this  stood 
a  hnge  wooden  pump  and  a  heavy  log  hollowed  out  for 
a  trough.  House  and  barns  were  white  ;  the  house  was 
large,  but  the  barns  were  man-y  times  larger.  If  it  had 
not  been  that  their  sloping  roofs  of  various  heights  and 
sizes  formed  a  progression  of  angles  not  unpleasant  to 
the  eye,  the  buildings  would  i.ave  been  very  ugly  ;  but 
they  had  also  a  generous  and  cleanly  aspect  which  was 
attractive. 

Caius  brought  the  horses  to  the  trough  in  pairs, 
each  with  a  hempen  halter.  They  were  lightly-built, 
well-conditioned  beasts,  but  their  days  of  labour  had 
wrought  in  them  more  of  gentleness  than  of  lire.  As 
they  drank  now,  the  breeze  played  with  their  manes 
and  forelocks,  brushing  them  about  their  drooping 
necks  and  meek  faces.  Caius  pumped  the  water  for 
them,  and  watched  them  meditatively  the  while.  There 
was  a  fire  low  down  in  the  western  sky ;  over  the  purple 
of  the  leafless  woods  and  the  bleak  acres  of  bare  red 

6  75 


hi 


76 


THE   MERMAID. 


i: 


^.. 


earth  its  light  ghmced,  not  warming  them,  but  showing 
forth  their  eoldness,  as  fireliglit  ghancing  tlirough  a 
window-pane  glows  cold  upon  the  garden  snows.  The 
l)ig  butter-nut-tree  that  stood  up  high  and  strong  over 
the  pump  rattled  its  twigs  in  the  air,  as  bare  bones 
might  rattle. 

It  was  while  he  was  still  at  the  watering  that  the 
elder  Simpson  drove  up  to  the  house  door  in  his  gig. 
He  had  been  to  the  post-ofhce.  'Jliis  was  not  an  event 
that  happened  every  day,  so  that  the  letter  which  he 
now  handed  Caius  might  as  well  as  not  have  been  re- 
tarded a  day  or  two  in  its  delivery.  Caius  took  it,  lead- 
ing the  horses  to  their  stalls,  and  he  exan lined  it  by  the 
light  of  the  stable  lantern. 

The  writing,  the  appearance  of  tlie  envelope  and 
post-mark,  were  all  quite  unfamiliar.  The  writing  was 
the  fine  Italian  hand  common  to  ladies  of  a  former  gen- 
eration, and  was,  in  Caius'  mind,  connected  only  with 
the  idea  of  elderly  women.  He  opened  the  letter,  there- 
fore, with  the  less  curiosity.  Inside  lie  found  several 
pages  of  tlie  same  fine  writing,  and  he  read  it  with  his 
arm  round  the  neck  of  one  of  the  horses.  The  lantern, 
which  lie  had  hung  on  a  nail  in  the  stall,  sent  down 
dim  candlelight  upon  tho  pair. 

When  Caius  had  read  the  letter,  he  turned  it  over 
and  over  curiously,  and  began  to  read  it  again,  more 
out  of  sheer  surprise  than  from  any  relish  for  its  con- 
tents. It  was  written  by  one  ]\Iadame  Josephine  Le 
Maitre,  and  came  froui  a  place  which,  although  not  very 
far  from  his  own  home,  was  almost  as  unknown  to  him 
as  the  most  remote  foreign  part.  It  came  from  one  of 
the  Magdalen  Islands,  that  lie  some  eighty  miles'  jour- 
ney by  sea  to  the  north  of  his  native  shore.     The  writer 


THE   HAND  THAT  BECKONED. 


t  i 


vn 

er 
re 
n- 

ll 
mi 

of 

r- 

ler 


stated  tliiit  she  knew  few  men  upon  the  mainland — in 
which  she  seemed  to  inchide  the  hirger  island  of  Prince 
Edward — that  Caius  Simpson  was  the  only  medical  man 
of  whom  she  had  any  personal  knowledge  who  was  at 
that  time  unemployed.  She  stated,  also,  that  upon  the 
island  where  she  lived  there  were  some  hundreds  of 
fisher-folk,  and  that  a  very  deadly  disease,  that  she  sup- 
posed to  be  diphtheria,  was  among  them.  The  only 
doctor  in  the  whole  group  refused  to  come  to  them,  be- 
cause he  feared  to  take  back  the  infection  to  the  other 
islands.  Indeed,  so  great  was  the  dread  of  tliis  infec- 
tion, that  no  helpful  person  would  come  to  their  aid 
except  an  English  priest,  and  he  was  able  only  to  make 
a  short  weekly  visit.  It  was  some  months  now  since 
the  disease  had  first  appeared,  and  it  was  increasing 
rather  than  diminishing. 

"  Come,"  said  the  letter,  "  and  do  what  you  can  to 
save  the  lives  of  these  poor  people — their  need  of  you  is 
very  great ;  but  do  not  come  if  you  are  not  willing  to 
risk  vour  life,  for  vou  will  risk  it.  Do  not  come  if  vou 
are  not  willing  to  be  cut  off  from  the  world  all  the 
months  the  ice  lies  in  the  gulf,  for  at  that  time  we 
have  no  communication  with  the  world.  You  are  a 
good  man  ;  you  go  to  church,  and  believe  in  the  Divine 
Christ,  who  was  also  a  physician.  It  is  because  of  this 
that  I  dare  to  ask  you.  There  is  a  schooner  that  will 
be  lying  in  the  harbour  of  Souris  for  two  or  three  weeks 
after  the  time  that  you  receive  this  letter.  Then  she 
will  come  here  upon  her  last  winter  trip.  I  have  ar- 
ranged with  the  captain    to  bring  you  to  us  if  you  can 


come. 


91 


After  that  the  name  of  the  schooner  and  its  captain 
was  given,  a  list  also  of  some  of  the  thing?  that  he 


T8 


THE  MERMAID. 


would  need  to  bring  with  him.  It  was  stated  that  upon 
the  isUmd  he  would  receive  lodging  and  food,  and  that 
there  were  a  few  women,  not  unskilled  in  nursing,  who 
would  carry  out  his  instructions  with  regard  to  the  sick. 

Caius  folded  the  letter  after  the  second  reading, 
finished  his  work  with  the  horses,  and  walked  with  his 
lantern  througli  the  now  darkening  air  to  the  house. 
Just  for  a  few  seconds  he  stopped  in  the  cold  air,  and 
looked  about  him  at  the  dark  land  and  the  starry  sky. 

"  I  have  now  neither  the  belief  nor  the  enthusiasm 
she  attributes  to  me,"  said  Caius. 

When  he  got  into  the  bright  room  he  blinked  for  a 
moment  at  the  light  by  which  his  father  was  reading. 

The  elder  man  took  the  letter  in  his  hard,  knotted 
hand,  and  read  it  because  he  was  desired  to  do  so. 
When  finished,  he  cast  it  upon  the  table,  returning  to 
his  newspaper. 

"  Hoots  !  "  said  he  ;  "  the  woman's  mad  ! "  And  then 
meditatively,  after  he  had  finished  his  newspaper  para- 
graph :  "  What  dealings  have  you  ever  had  with  her?" 

"  1  never  had  any  dealings  with  her." 

"  When  you  get  a  letter  from  a  strange  woman  " — 
the  father  spoke  with  some  heat—"  the  best  thing  that 
you  can  do  with  it  is  to  put  it  in  the  fire." 

Now,  Caius  knew  that  his  father  had,  as  a  usual 
thing,  that  kindly  and  simple  way  of  looking  at  the 
actions  of  his  fellow-men  which  is  refinement,  so  that 
it  was  evident  that  the  contents  of  the  letter  were  hate- 
ful. That  was  to  be  expected.  The  point  that  aroused 
the  son's  curiosity  was  to  know  how  far  the  father  rec- 
ognised an  obligation  imposed  by  the  letter.  The  letter 
would  be  hateful  just  in  so  far  as  it  was  considered 
worthy  of  attention. 


THE  HAND  THAT  BECKONED. 


79 


"  I  suppose,"  said  the  young  man  dubiously,  "  that 
we  can  easily  find  ou.t  at  Souris  whether  the  statements 
iu  the  letter  are  true  or  not  ?  " 

The  father  continued  to  read  his  paper. 

The  lamp  upon  the  unpolished  walnut  table  had  no 
shade  or  globe  upon  it,  and  it  glared  with  all  the  bril- 
liancy of  clean  glass,  and  much  wick  and  oil.  The 
dining-room  was  orderly  as  ever.  The  map  of  Pales- 
tine, the  old  Bible,  and  some  newly-acquired  commen- 
taries, obtruded  themselves  painfully  as  ornaments. 
There  was  no  nook  or  corner  in  which  anything  could 
hide  in  shadow  ;  there  were  no  shutters  on  the  windows, 
for  there  was  no  one  to  pass  by,  unless  it  niiglit  be  some 
good  or  evil  spirit  that  floated  upon  the  dark  air. 

Mr.  Simpson  continued  to  read  his  paper  without 
heeding  his  son.  The  mother's  voice  chiding  the  maid 
in  the  next  room  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the 
silence. 

"  I'll  write  to  that  merchant  you  used  to  know  at 
Souris,  father,"  Cains  spoke  in  a  business-like  voice. 
"  He  will  be  able  to  find  out  from  all  the  vessels  that 
come  in  to  what  extent  there  is  disease  on  the  Mag- 
dalens." 

Tlie  exciting  cause  in  Cains  of  this  remark  was  his 
father's  indifference  and  0})position,  and  the  desire  to 
probe  it. 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort."  Simpson's  answer 
was  very  testy.  "  What  call  have  yon  to  interfere  with 
the  Magdalens?  ''  Ilis  anger  rose  from  a  cause  perhaps 
more  explicable  to  an  onlooker  than  to  himself. 


0^ 


oars  there  had  grown  in  the  mind 


In  the  CO'"' 

of  Caius  m      .  prejudice  against  the  form  and  measure 
of  his  parents'  religion.     He  would  have  throttled  an- 


it'i 


i    V'] 


I = i 


ii 


w^ 


80 


THE   MERMAID. 


I'' 'is 


I 


other  who  dared  to  criticise  them,  vet  he  himself  took  a 
certain  pleasure  in  an  opportunity  that  made  criticism 
pertinent  rather  than  impertinent.  Jt  was  not  that  he 
prided  himself  on  knowing  or  doing  better,  he  was  not 
naturally  a  theorist,  nor  didactic ;  but  education  had 
awakened  his  mind,  not  only  to  difficulties  in  the  path 
of  faith,  but  to  a  higher  standard  of  altruism  than  was 
exacted  by  old-fashioned  orthodoxy. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  write  to  Souris,  sir ;  the  letter  is 
to  me,  you  see,  and  I  should  not  feel  quite  justified  in 
taking  no  steps  to  investigate  the  matter." 

How  easy  the  hackneyed  phrase  "taking  steps" 
sounded  to  Caius !  but  experience  breeds  strong  in- 
stincts. The  elder  man  felt  the  importance  of  this 
first  decision,  and  struck  out  against  it  as  an  omen 
of  ill. 

"  In  my  opinion  you'll  do  well  to  let  the  matter  lie 
where  it  is.  How  will  you  look  making  inquiries  about 
sick  folk  as  if  you  had  a  great  fortune  to  spend  upon 
philanthropy,  when  it  turns  out  that  you  have  none? 
If  you'd  not  spent  all  my  money  on  your  own  schooling, 
perhaps  you'd  have  some  to  play  the  fine  gentleman 
with  now,  and  send  a  hospital  and  its  staff  on  this  same 
schooner."  (This  was  the  first  reproach  of  his  son's 
extravagance  which  had  ever  passed  his  lips ;  it  beto- 
kened passion  indeed.)  "  If  you  write  you  can't  do  less 
than  send  a  case  of  medicines,  and  who  is  to  pay  for 
them,  I'd  like  to  know?  I'm  pretty  well  cleared  out. 
They're  a  hardened  lot  of  wreckers  on  those  islands — 
I've  heard  that  told  of  them  many  a  time.  Xo  doubt 
their  own  filth  and  bad  living  has  brought  disease  upon 
th-^m,  if  there's  truth  in  the  tale ;  and  as  to  this  strange 
woman,  giving  no  testimony  or  certificate  of  her  re- 


THE   HAND  THAT   BECKONED. 


81 


spec 


tabilitv,  it's  a 


J' 


quee 


r  thin<r  if  slie's  to  hesiii  and  teach 


you  religion  and  duty.     lt\s  a  boUl  and  impudent  letter, 

lel't,  with  all  your 


an 


d  I 


suppose  you  ve  enough  sense 


new  fangles,  to  see  that  you  can't  do  all  she  asks.  What 
do  you  think  you  can  do?  If  you  thirk  Tni  going  to 
pay  for  charity  boxes  to  be  sent  to  people  I've  no  opinion 
of,  when  all  the  missionary  subscriptions  will  be  due 


think 


at 


that's  all, 


come  t  le  new  year,  y 
lie  brought  his  largo  hard  hand  down  on  the  table,  so 
that  the  board  rang  and  the  lamp  ([uaked  ;  then  lie  set- 
tle<l  his  rounded  shoulders  stul)bornlv,  and  again  un- 
furled  the  newspaper. 

This  strong  declaration  of  wrath,  and  the  reproaches 
concerning  the  money,  were  a  relief  to  Caius.  A  relief 
from  what  ?  Had  he  contemplated  for  a  moment  taking 
his  life  in  his  hand  and  obeying  the  unexpected  ap|)ear:' 
Yet  he  felt  no  answering  anger  in  return  for  the  rebuke  ; 
he  only  found  himself  comfortably  admitting  that  if  his 
father  put  it  on  the  score  of  expense  he  certaiidy  had 
no  right  to  sfive  time  or  monev  that  did  not  belong  to 
him.  It  was  due  to  his  parents  that  all  his  occupation 
should  henceforth  be  remunerative. 

lie  put  the-  letter  away  in  his  pocket,  but,  perhaps 
because  he  laid  it  next  his  heart,  the  next  day  its  cry 
awoke  within  him  again,  and  would  not  be  silenced. 

Christianity  was  identitied  in  iiis  mind  with  an  ex- 
clusive way  of  life,  to  him  no  longer  good  or  true  ;  but 
what  of  those  stirring  principles  of  Socialism  that  were 
abroad  in  the  worl'V,  Hauntiuir  themselves  as  superior  to 
Christianity?  He  was  a  child  of  the  age,  and  dared  not 
deny  its  highest  precepts.  Who  would  go  to  these  peo- 
ple if  he  did  not  go?  As  to  his  father,  he  had  coaxed 
him  before  for  his  own  [idvantage;  he  could  coax  him 


•i 


V\ 


82 


THE  MERMAID. 


B 


iw'*a 


now  for  theirs  if  he  would.  He  was  sufficiently  edu- 
cated to  know  that  it  was  more  glorious  to  die,  even  uu- 
rciiowned,  upon  such  a  mission,  than  to  live  in  the  pros- 
perity that  belongs  to  ordinary  covetousness,  that  should 
it  be  his  duty  to  obey  this  call,  no  other  duty  remained 
for  him  in  its  neglect. 

His  personal  desire  in  the  matter  was  neither  more 
nor  less  noble  than  are  the  average  feelings  of  well- 
meaning  people  towards  such  enterprise.  He  would 
have  been  glad  to  find  an  excellent  excuse  to  think  no 
more  of  this  mission — very  glad  indeed  to  have  a  more 
attractive  opening  for  work  set  before  him ;  but,  on  tlie 
other  hand,  the  thought  of  movement  and  of  fresh 
scenes  was  more  attractive  than  staying  where  he  was. 
Then,  it  would  be  such  a  virtuous  thing  to  do  and  to 
liave  done ;  his  own  conscience  and  everyone  who  heard 
of  the  action  must  applaud  it.  And  he  did  not  think 
so  much  of  the  applause  of  others  as  of  the  real  worthi- 
ness of  the  deed.  Then,  again,  if  he  came  back  safely 
in  the  spring,  he  hoped  by  that  time  the  offer  ol  some 
good  post  would  be  waiting  for  him ;  and  it  would  be 
more  dignified  to  return  from  such  an  excellent  work  to 
find  it  waiting,  than  to  sit  at  home  humbly  longing  for 
its  advent. 

Caius  went  to  Souris  and  questioned  the  merchants, 
talked  to  the  captains  of  the  vessels  in  the  port,  saw  the 
schooner  upon  which  Madame  Le  Maitre  had  engaged 
his  passage.  What  seemed  to  him  most  strange  in  the 
working  out  of  this  bit  of  his  life's  story,  was  that  all 
that  the  letter  said  appeared  to  be  true.  The  small 
island  called  Cloud  Island,  where  the  pestilence  was, 
and  to  which  he  had  been  invited,  was  not  one  at  which 
larger  ships  or  schooners  could  land,  so  that  it  was  only 


THE  HAND  THAT   BECKONED. 


83 


from  the  harbour  of  another  ishmd  that  the  seamen  got 
tlieir  news.  On  all  hands  it  was  known  that  there  was 
bad  disease  upon  Cloud  Island,  that  no  doctor  was  there, 
and  that  there  was  one  lady,  a  Maihime  Le  Maitre,  a 
person  of  some  property,  who  was  devoting  herself  to 
nursing  the  sick.  When  Caius  asked  who  she  was,  and 
where  she  came  from,  one  person  said  one  thing  and 
one  another.  Some  of  the  men  told  him  that  she  was 
old,  some  of  them  affirmed  that  she  was  young,  and  this, 
not  because  there  was  supposed  to  be  any  tnystery  con- 
cerning her,  but  because  no  one  seemed  to  have  taken 
sufficient  interest  in  her  existence  to  obtain  accurate  in- 
formation. 

When  Caius  re-entered  the  gate  of  his  father's  farm 
he  had  decided  to  risk  the  adventure,  and  obey  the  let- 
ter in  all  points  precisely. 

"  Would  you  let  it  be  said  that  in  all  these  parts 
there  was  no  one  to  act  the  man  but  a  woman?"  he 
said  to  his  father. 

To  his  mother  he  described  the  sufferings  that  this 
disease  would  work,  all  the  details  of  its  pains,  and  how 
little  children  and  mothers  and  wives  would  be  the  chief 
sufferers,  dying  in  helpless  pain,  or  being  bereft  of  those 
they  loved  best. 

As  he  talked,  the  heart  of  the  good  woman  rose  up 
within  her  and  blessed  her  son,  acknowledging,  in  spite 
of  her  natural  desires,  that  he  was  in  this  more  truly 
the  great  man  than  she  had  fancied  him  in  her  wildest 
dreams  of  opulence  and  renown.  She  credited  hi!n 
with  far  purer  motives  than  he  knew  himself  to  possess. 

A  father's  rule  over  his  own  money  is  a  very  modi- 
fied thing,  the  very  fact  of  true  fatlierhood  making  him 
only  a  partner  with  his  child.     Caius  was  under  the  im- 


i 


m 


1^ 


'€ 


I 


84 


THE  MERMAID. 


Ill 


i^ 


pression  that  his  fatlier  could  have  refused  liim  the 
necessary  outtit  of  medical  stores  for  this  expedition, 
but  tliat  was  not  the  way  ohl  Simpson  hjoked  at  it. 

"If  he  must,  he  must,"  lie  said  to  liis  wife  angrily, 
gloomily,  for  liis  own  opinion  in  the  matter  had  changed 
little ;  but  to  Caius  he  gave  his  consent,  and  all  the 
money  he  needed,  and  did  not,  except  at  lirst,  express 
his  disapproval,  so  that  Caius  took  the  less  pains  to 
argue  the  matter  with  him. 

It  was  only  at  the  last,  when  Caius  had  fairly  set  out 
on  his  journey,  and,  having  said  good-bye,  looked  back 
to  see  his  father  stand  at  the  gate  of  his  own  fields,  that 
the  attitude  of  the  sttdwart  form  and  gray  head  gave 
him  his  first  real  insight  into  the  pain  the  parting  had 
cost — into  the  strong,  sad  disapproval  which  in  the 
father's  mind  lay  behind  the  nominal  consent.  Caius 
saw  it  then,  or,  at  least,  he  saw  enough  of  it  to  feel  a 
sharp  pang  of  regret  and  self-reproach.  lie  felt  him- 
self to  be  an  unworthy  son,  and  to  have  wronged  the 
best  of  fathers.  Whether  he  was  doing  right  or  wrong 
in  proceeding  upon  his  mission  he  did  not  know.  iSo 
in  this  mind  he  set  sail. 


m. 


CHAPTER   11. 


THE   ISLKS   OF   ST.    MAGD.VLKN", 


The  schooner  went  out  into  the  iwj^ht  and  sailed  for 
the  north  star.  The  wind  was  strong  tliat  llUed  her 
sails;  the  ocean  turbulent,  black  and  cold,  with  the  glit- 
tering white  of  mooidight  on  the  up})er  sides  of  the 
waves.  The  little  cabin  in  the  forecastle  was  so  hot  and 
dirty  that  to  Caius,  for  the  first  half  of  the  night,  it 
seemed  preferable  almost  to  perish  of  cold  upon  the 
deck  rather  than  rock  in  a  narrow  bunk  below.  The 
deck  was  a  steep  inclined  plane,  steady,  but  swept  con- 
stantly with  waves,  as  an  incoming  tide  sweeps  a  beach. 
Caius  was  compelled  to  crouch  by  what  support  he  could 
find,  and,  lying  thus,  he  was  glad  to  cover  himself  up  to 
the  chin  with  an  unused  sail,  peeping  fortli  at  the  gale 
and  the  moonlight  as  a  child  peeps  from  the  coverings 
of  its  cot. 

With  the  small  hours  of  the  night  came  a  cold  so 
intense  that  he  was  driven  to  sleep  in  the  cabin  where 
reigned  the  small  iron  stove  that  brewed  the  skipper's 
odorous  pot.  After  he  had  slept  a  good  way  into  the 
next  day,  he  came  up  again  to  lind  the  gale  still  strong 
and  the  prospect  coloured  new  with  green  of  wave  and 
snow  of  foam,  blue  of  skv  and  sno.v  of  winged  cloud. 


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33  WEST  MAIN  f  T'SsT 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  873-4503 


/A 


I/a 


83 


THE  MERMAID. 


rv 


The  favourable  force  was  still  pushing  them  onward  to- 
ward the  invisible  north  star. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  that  day  that  they  saw  the 
islands ;  live  or  six  hilly  isles  lay  in  a  half-circle.  The 
schooner  entered  this  bay  from  the  east.  Before  they 
came  near  the  purple  hills  they  had  sighted  a  fleet  of 
island  tishing  boats,  and  now,  as  night  approached,  all 
these  made  also  for  the  same  harbour.  The  wind  bore 
them  all  in,  they  cutting  the  water  before  them,  gliding 
round  the  point  of  the  sand-bar,  making  their  way  up 
the  channel  of  the  biiy  in  the  lessening  light,  a  chain  of 
gigantic  sea-birds  with  white  or  ruddy  wings. 

All  around  tlie  bay  the  islands  lay,  their  hills  a  soft 
red  purple  in  the  light  of  a  clear  November  evening.  In 
the  blue  sky  above  there  were  layers  of  vapour  like  thin 
gray  gossamers,  on  which  the  rosy  light  shone.  The 
waters  of  the  bay  were  caluKM'  than  the  sea  outside,  yet 
they  were  still  broken  by  foam ;  across  the  foam  the 
boats  went  sweeping,  until  in  the  shadow  of  the  isles 
and  the  fast-descending  night  they  each  furled  their 
sails  and  stopped  their  journey.  It  was  in  the  western 
side  of  the  bay  that  the  vessels  lay,  for  the  gale  was  from 
the  west,  and  here  they  found  shelter ;  but  night  had 
descended  suddenly,  and  Caius  could  only  see  the  black 
form  of  the  nearest  island,  and  the  twinkling  lights  that 
showed  where  houses  were  collected  on  its  shore.  They 
waited  there  till  the  moon  rose  large  and  white,  touch- 
ing the  island  hills  again  into  visible  existence.  It  was 
over  one  snuill  rockv  island  that  she  rose;  this  was  the 
one  that  stood  sentry  at  the  entrance  of  the  bay,  and  on 
either  side  of  it  there  were  moon-lit  paths  that  stretched 
far  out  into  the  gulf.  On  the  nearer  island  could  be 
seen  long  sand  reaches,  and  dark  rounded  hills,  and  in  a 


•I  '.  . 


THE   ISLES  OF  ST.  MAGDALEN. 


87 


n 
d 
le 
a 


hollow  of  the  hills  the  clustered  lights.  When  the  moon- 
\\ir\\t  was  brif^it  the  master  of  the  schooner  lowered  a 
boat  and  set  Caius  and  his  traps  ashore,  telling  him  that 
some  day  when  the  gale  was  over  he  could  make  his 
way  to  the  island  of  Cloud.  The  skipper  said  that  the 
gale  might  blow  one  day,  or  two,  or  three,  or  more,  but 
it  could  not  blow  ulwavs,  and  in  the  meantime  there  was 
entertainment  to  be  had  for  those  who  could  pay  for  it 
on  the  nearer  isle. 

When  Caius  stood  upon  the  beach  with  his  port- 
manteaus beside  him,  some  half  a  dozen  men  clustered 
round;  in  their  thick  garments  and  mufflers  they  looked 
outlandish  enough.  They  spoke  Plnglish,  and  after 
much  talking  they  bore  his  things  to  a  small  house  on 
the  hillside.  He  heard  the  wind  clamour  against  the 
wooden  walls  of  this  domicile  as  he  stood  in  its  porch 
before  the  door  was  opened.  The  wind  shouted  and 
laughed  and  shook  the  house,  and  whistled  and  sighed 
as  it  rushed  away.  Below  him,  nearer  the  shore,  lay  the 
village,  its  white  house-walls  lit  by  the  moonlight, 
and  beyond  he  could  see  the  ships  in  the  glittering 
bay. 

When  the  door  opened  such  a  feast  of  warmth  and 
comfort  appeared  to  his  eyes  that  he  did  not  soon  for- 
get it,  for  he  had  expected  nothing  but  the  necessaries 
of  life.  Bright  decoration  of  home-made  rugs  and  or- 
naments was  on  all  sides,  and  a  table  was  laid. 

They  were  four  spinsters  of  Irish  descent  who  kept 
this  small  inn,  and  all  that  goovl  housewifery  could  do  to 
make  it  comfortable  was  done.  The  table  was  heaped 
with  such  dainties  as  could  be  concocted  from  the  home- 
ly products  of  the  island  ;  large  red  cranberries  cooked 
in  syrup  gave  colour   to   the   repast.     Soon  a  broiled 


il 


88 


THE   MERMAID. 


ii 


I 


!i# 


I       i 


Ul 


h^r 


cliicken  was  set  before  Cains,  and  steaming  coffee  rich 
witii  cream. 

'J'o  tliese  old  maids  Caius  was  obliged  to  relate 
wberefore  he  liad  come  and  whither  he  n-as  bound,  lie 
told  his  story  with  a  feeling  of  self-conscious  awkward- 
ness, because,  put  it  in  as  cursory  a  manner  as  he  would, 
he  felt  the  heroism  of  his  errand  must  appear;  nor  was 
he  with  this  present  audience  mistaken.  The  wrinkled 
maidens,  with  their  warm  Irish  hearts,  were  overcome 
with  the  thought  that  so  much  youth  and  beauty  and 
masculine  charm,  in  the  person  of  the  young  man  be- 
fore them,  should  be  sacrificed,  aiul,  as  it  seemed  to 
them,  foolishly. 

The  inhabitants  of  Cloud  Island,  said  these  ladies, 
were  a  worthless  set ;  and  in  proof  of  it  they  related 
to  him  how  the  girls  of  The  Cloud  were  not  too  nice  in 
their  notions  to  marry  with  the  shipwrecked  sailors  from 
foreign  boats,  a  thing  they  assured  him  that  was  never 
done  on  their  own  island.  Italian,  or  German,  or  Nor- 
wegian, or  whoever  the  man  might  be,  if  he  had  good 
looks,  a  girl  at  The  Cloud  would  take  him  ! 

And  would  not  they  themselves,  Caius  asked,  in 
BU'ih  a  case,  take  pity  on  a  stranger  who  had  need  of 
a  wife  ? 

Whereat  they  assured  him  that  it  was  safer  to  marry 
a  native  islander,  and  that  no  self-respecting  woman 
could  marry  with  a  man  who  was  not  English,  or  Irish, 
or  Scotch,  or  French.  It  was  of  these  four  latter 
nationalities  that  the  native  population  of  the  islands 
was  composed. 

But  the  ladies  told  him  worse  tales  than  these,  for 
they  said  the  devil  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Cloud 
Island,  and   at  times  he  went  out  with  the  fishers  in 


THE   ISLES  OF  ST.  MAGDALEN. 


89 


*r 


their  boats,  choosing  now  one,  now  another,  for  a  com- 
panion;  and  whenever  he  went,  there  was  a  wonch-rful 
catch  of  fish;  but  tlie  devil  must  have  his  full  share, 
whicli  lie  ate  raw  juid  without  cleaning — a  thing  which 
no  Christian  could  do.  lie  lived  in  the  round  valleys 
of  the  sand  ilune  that  led  to  The  Cloud.  It  was  a  con- 
venient hiding-place,  because  when  you  were  in  one 
valley  you  could  n  .  see  into  the  next,  and  the  devil 
always  leaped  into  the  one  that  you  were  not  in.  As  to 
the  pestilence,  it  was  sent  as  a  judgment  because  the 
people  had  these  impious  dealings  with  the  Evil  One; 
but  the  devil  could  put  an  end  to  it  if  he  would. 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  four  gray-haired  sisters  as 
they  ;at  in  a  row  against  the  wall  and  told  him  in 
chiming  sentences  these  tales  with  full  belief. 

"And  what  sort  of  a  disease  is  it?"  asked  Caius, 
curious  to  hear  more. 

"  It's  the  sore  throat  and  the  choke,  sir,"  said  the 
eldest  sister,  "and  a  very  bad  disease  it  is,  for  if  it 
doesn't  stop  at  the  throat,  it  flies  direct  to  the  stomach, 
sir,  and  then  vou  can't  breathe." 

Caius  pondered  this  description  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  he  formed  a  question  which  was  to  the  point. 

"  And  where,"  said  he,  "  is  the  stomach  ?  " 

At  which  she  tapped  her  chest,  and  told  him  it  was 
there. 

lie  had  eaten  somewhat  greedily,  and  when  he 
found  that  the  linen  of  his  bed  was  snow-white  and  the 
bed  itself  of  the  softest  feathers,  he  lay  down  with  great 
contentment.  Not  even  the  jar  and  rush  of  the  wind 
as  it  constantly  assaulted  the  house,  nor  the  bright 
moonlight  against  the  curtainless  window,  kept  him 
awake  for  a  moment.     He  siept  a  dreamless  sleep. 


M 


11 
•It 


in 


I;.    ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

BETWEEN   THE   SURF   AND   THE   SAND. 

Next  day  the  wind  had  grown  stronger ;  the  same 
clear  skies  prevailed,  with  the  keen  western  gale,  for 
the  west  wind  in  these  quarters  is  seldom  humid,  and 
at  that  season  it  was  frosty  and  very  dry,  coming  as  it 
did  over  the  already  snow-covered  plains  of  Gaspe  and 
Quebec.  It  seemed  strange  to  Caius  to  look  out  at  the 
glorious  sunshine  and  be  told  that  not  a  boat  would  stir 
abroad  that  day,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
even  a  cart  to  drive  to  the  Cloud  Island. 

He  knew  so  little  of  the  place  to  which  he  had  come 
that  when  the  spinsters  spoke  of  driving  to  another 
island  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  spoke  as  wildly  as 
when  they  told  of  the  pranks  of  the  Evil  One.  He 
learned  soon  that  these  islands  were  connected  by  long 
Band  ridges,  and  that  when  the  tide  was  down  it  was 
possible  to  drive  upon  the  damp  beach  from  one  to 
another ;  but  this  was  not  possible,  they  told  him,  in  a 
western  gale,  for  the  wind  beat  up  the  tide  so  that  one 
could  not  tell  how  far  it  would  descend  or  how  soon  it 
would  return.  There  was  risk  of  being  caught  by  the 
waves  under  the  hills  of  the  dune,  which  a  horse  could 
not  climb,  and,  they  added,  he  had  already  been  told 
who  it  was  who  lived  in  the  sand  hollows. 

90 


BETWEEN  THE  SURF  AND  THE  SAND. 


91 


In  the  face  of  the  sunny  morning,  Cains  conul  not 
forbear  expressing  liis  incredulity  of  tlie  dialxilical 
legend,  and  his  hostesses  did  not  take  tlie  trouble 
to  argue  the  point,  for  it  is  to  be  noted  that  people 
seldom  argue  on  behalf  of  the  items  of  faith  thev  hold 
most  lirmly.  The  spinsters  merely  remarked  that  there 
were  a  strange  number  of  wrecks  on  the  sand-bar  tliat 
led  to  The  Cloud,  and  that,  go  where  he  would  in  the 
village,  he  would  get  no  sand-i)ilot  to  take  him  Jicross 
while  the  tide  was  beaten  up  by  the  wind,  and  a  pilot 
he  must  have,  or  he  would  sink  in  the  quicksands  and 
never  be  seen  again. 

Cuius  walked,  with  the  merry  wind  for  a  playfellow, 
dowi  through  long  rows  of  fish-sheds,  and  heard  wliat 
the  ni  n  had  to  say  with  regard  to  his  journey,  lie 
heard  exactly  what  the  women  had  told  him,  for  no  one 
would  venture  upon  the  dune  that  day. 

Then,  still  in  company  with  the  madcap  wind,  he 
walked  up  on  the  nearer  hills,  and  saw  that  this  island 
was  narrow,  lying  between  blue  fields  of  sea,  both  bay 
and  ocean  filled  with  wave  crests,  ever  moving.  The 
outer  sea  beat  uj)on  the  sandy  beach  with  a  roar  and 
volume  of  surf  such  as  he  had  never  seen  before,  for 
under  the  water  the  sand-bank  stretched  out  a  mile  but 
a  little  below  the  sea's  level,  and  the  breakers,  rolling 
in,  retarded  by  it  and  labouring  to  make  their  accus- 
tomed course,  came  on  like  wild  beasts  that  were  chafed 
into  greater  anger  at  each  bound,  so  that  with  over- 
increjising  fury  they  roared  and  plunged  until  they 
touched  the  verge. 

From  the  hills  he   saw   that  the  fish  sheds  which 
stood  along  the  village  street  could  only  be  a  cam})ing 
place  for  the  fishers  at  the  season  of  work,  for  all  along 
7 


92 


THE   MKRMAID. 


%\ 


i4 


}'r 


n 


the  inner  sides  of  the  liills  tliore  were  small  farm-houses, 
large  enough  and  fine  enougli  to  make  good  dwellings. 
The  island  was  less  savage  than  ho  had  su])poried.  In- 
dignation rose  within  him  that  people  apparently  so 
well-to-do  should  let  their  neighbours  die  without  ex- 
tending a  helping  hand.  lie  would  have  heen  glad  to 
go  and  bully  some  owner  of  a  horse  and  eart  into  taking 
him  the  last  stage  of  his  journey  without  further  delay ; 
but  he  did  not  do  this,  he  only  roamed  upon  the  hills 
enjoying  the  fair  prospect  of  the  sea  and  the  sister  isles, 
and  went  back  to  his  inn  about  two  o'clock.  There  he 
feasted  again  upon  the  luxurious  provision  that  the 
spinsters  had  been  making  for  the  appetite  that  the  new 
ai/  had  given  him.  He  ate  roast  duck,  stu  ITed  with  a  paste 
of  large  island  mushrooms,  preserved  since  their  season, 
and  tarts  of  bake-apple  berries,  and  cran])erries,  and  the 
snvdW  dark  mokok  berrv — three  kinds  of  tart  he  ate,  with 
fresh  cream  upon  them,  and  the  spinster  inn-keepers 
applauded  his  feat.  They  stood  around  and  rejoiced 
at  his  eating,  and  again  they  told  him  in  chorus  that  he 
must  not  go  to  the  other  island  wliere  the  people  Avere  sick. 
It  was  just  then  that  a  great  knock  came  at  the 
frontdoor;  the  loudness  of  the  wind  had  silenced  the 
approaching  footsteps.  A  square-built,  smooth-faced 
man,  well  wrapped  in  a  coat  of  ox  fur,  came  into  the 
house,  asking  for  Cains  8imi)son  by  name.  Ilis  face 
was  one  which  it  was  impossible  to  see  without  remark- 
ing the  lines  of  subtle  intelligence  displayed  in  its  leath- 
ery wrinkles.  The  eyes  were  light  blue,  very  quick, 
almost  merry — and  yet  not  quite,  for  if  there  was  hu- 
mour in  them,  it  was  of  the  kind  that  takes  its  pleasures 
quietly ;  there  was  no  proueness  to  laughter  in  the  hard- 
set  face. 


BETWEEN  THE  SUKF  AND  THE  SAND. 


1>3 


When  Cuius  heard  his  own  name  .s})okcn,  lie  know  thiit 
sometliing  unexpected  h.d  happened,  fur  no  one  upon 
the  ishmd  liad  askeil  his  lumie,  and  he  had  not  «^iven  it. 

Tile  stran(jfer,  who,  from  his  aeccnt,  appeared  to  be 
a  Canadian  of  Irisli  parentage,  said,  in  a  few  eurt  words, 
that  he  had  a  cart  outside,  and  was  going  to  drive  at 
once  to  Cloud  Island,  that  he  wished  to  take  the  young 
doctor  with  him  ;  for  death,  he  observed,  was  not  sitting 
idle  eating  liis  dinner  at  The  Cloud,  and  if  anyone  was 
coming  to  do  battle  with  him  it  would  be  as  well  to 
come  quickly. 

The  sarcasm  nettled  Caius,  first,  because  he  felt  him- 
self to  be  caught  napping;  secondly,  because  he  knew 
he  wjis  innocent. 

The  elder  of  the  spinsters  had  got  behind  the 
strange^,  and  she  intimated  by  signs  and  movements  of 
the  lips  that  the  stranger  was  unknown,  and  therefore 
mysterious,  and  not  to  be  trusted  ;  and  so  quickly  was 
this  pantomime  performed  that  it  was  done  before  Caius 
had  time  to  speak,  although  he  was  under  the  impres- 
sion that  he  rose  with  alacrity  to  explain  to  the  new- 
comer that  he  would  go  with  him  at  once. 

The  warning  that  the  old  maid  gave  resulted  at 
least  in  some  cautious  questioning.  Caius  asked  the 
stranger  who  he  was,  and  if  he  had  come  from  The 
Cloud  that  day. 

As  to  who  he  was,  the  man  replied  that  his  name 
was  John  O'Sliea,  and  he  was  the  man  who  worked  the 
land  of  Madame  Le  Maitre.  '"  One  does  not  go  and 
come  from  Cloud  Island  in  one  day  at  this  season," 
said  he.  "  'Tis  three  days  ago  since  I  came.  I've  been 
waiting  up  at  the  parson's  for  the  schooner.  To-day 
we're  going  back  together,  ye  and  me." 


t 


if:'!' 


il 


94 


THE   MEKMAID. 


lie  was  spiiring  of  lan<;iiai]^e.  IIo  shut  his  mouth 
over  tlic  short  scntuuees  hu  liacl  said,  and  that  inlhienco 
wiiich  always  makes  it  more  or  less  ditlicult  for  one  nuin 
to  oj)|)()se  tiie  will  of  another  caused  Caius  to  make  his 
(juestioMS  as  few  as  })ossible. 

Was  it  safe,  he  asked,  to  drive  to  Cloud  Island  that 
dav  ? 

The  otlier  h)oked  at  him  from  head  to  foot.  "  Not 
safe,"  he  said,  "  for  women  and  rhilder;  but  for  men  " 
— the  word  was  lingered  upon  for  a  moment — "  yes, 
safe  enough." 

The  innkeepers  were  too  mindful  of  tlu'ir  manners 
as  yet  to  disturb  the  eollofpiy  with  o])en  interrupti(m ; 
but  with  every  otlier  sort  of  interruption  they  did  dis- 
turb it,  explaining  by  despairing  gestures  and  direful 
shakings  of  the  head  that,  should  Caius  go  with  this 
genthrrmn,  he  would  be  driving  into  the  very  jaws  of 
deat) 

jSevertheless,  after  O'Shea's  last  words  Caius  had 
assented  to  the  expedition,  although  he  was  uncertain 
whether  the  assent  was  wise  or  not.  He  had  the  dissat- 
isfaction of  feeling  that  he  had  been  ruled,  dared,  like 
a  vain  schoolboy,  into  the  hasty  consent. 

"  Now,  if  you  are  servant  to  Madame  Le  Maitre  at 
The  Cloud,  how  is  it  that  you've  never  been  seen  on  this 
island  ?  "  It  was  the  liveliest  of  the  sisters  who  could 
no  longer  keep  silence. 

While  Caius  was  packing  his  traps  he  was  under 
the  impression  that  O'Shea  had  replied  that,  in  the  first 
place,  he  had  not  lived  long  at  The  Cloud,  and,  in  the 
second,  visitors  from  The  Cloud  had  not  been  so  par- 
ticularly welcome  at  the  other  islands.  His  remarks  on 
the  last  subject  were  delivered  with  brief  sarcasm.    After 


BETVVKKX  THE  SUUF  AND  THE  SAND. 


95 


:e 


ho  lijul  started  on  tlie  jounioy  Cains  wondcrod  tliat  lie 
had  not  rcnionibcM'od  iiion*  particularly  tlu'  gist  of  an 
answer  which  it  concerned  him  to  hear. 

At  the  time,  however,  he  hastened  to  strap  to<jether 
those  of  his  bundles  which  had  been  opened,  and,  under 
the  direction  of  O'Slu'a,  to  clothe  himself  in  us  many 
garments  as  possil)le,  O'Shea  arguing  haste  for  the  sake 
of  the  tide,  wliieh,  he  said,  had  already  begun  to  ebb, 
and  there  was  not  an  liour  to  be  lost. 

The  women  broke  forth  once  more,  this  time  into 
open  expostulation  and  warning.  To  them  O'SheUi 
vouchsafed  no  further  word,  but  with  an  annoying  as- 
sumption that  the  doctor's  courage  would  quail  under 
their  warnings,  he  encouraged  him. 

"  There's  a  mere  boy,  a  slim  lad,  on  my  cart  now," 
he  said,  "  that's  going  with  us  ;  he's  no  more  froightened 
than  a  gull  is  froightened  of  the  sea." 

Caius  showed  his  valour  by  marching  out  of  the  door, 
a  bag  in  either  hand. 

Ko  snow  had  as  yet  fallen  on  the  islands.  The  grass 
that  was  before  the  inn  door  was  long  and  of  that  dry 
green  hue  that  did  not  suggest  verdure,  for  all  the 
juices  had  gone  back  into  the  ground.  It  was  swept 
into  silver  sheens  by  the  wind,  and  as  they  crossed  it  to 
reach  the  road  where  the  cart  stood,  the  wind  came 
against  them  all  with  staggering  force.  The  four  ladies 
came  out  in  spite  of  the  icy  blast,  and  attended  them  to 
the  cart,  and  stood  to  watch  them  as  they  wended  their 
way  up  the  rugged  road  that  led  over  a  hill. 

The  cart  was  a  small-sized  wooden  one — a  shallow 
box  on  wheels ;  no  springs,  no  paint,  had  been  used  in 
its  making.  Some  straw  had  been  spread  on  the  bot- 
tom, and  on  this  Caius  was  directed  to  recline.     His 


p 


pi" 


m  i 


i 


THE   MKKMAII). 


ba^s  nlso  wore  j)lji('0(l  bi'sidc;  liim.  O'Slioa  liiinsolf  sat 
on  the  front  of  tlic  cart,  his  K'gs  daiiLflinii;,  and  the  boy, 
who  was  "  no  more  froi!j!:ht('nt'd  of  the  iournev  than  a 
sca-frnll  is  of  the  sea,"  pereiie  1  liimself  ni)on  one  eorner 
of  the  bar!k  and  looked  out  haekwards,  so  that  his  face 
wa8  turned  from  Ciiius,  wlio  only  knew  tliat  he  was  a 

'  ft 

slim  lad  because  he  bad  been  told  so;  a  lonj;  ijray 
blanket-coat  with  capuchin  drawn  over  the  head  and 
far  over  the  face  covered  him  con»j)K'tely. 

Caius  o[)pos('d  his  will  to  the  reclining  attitude 
which  had  been  sufrgested  to  bini,  and  i)referred  to  sit 
upon  the  Hat  boitoni  with  the  desire  io  keep  erct ;  and 
lie  did  sit  tliuH  for  awhile,  like  a  ])orcelain  mandarin 
with  nodding  head,  for,  Jiithougb  the  hardy  pony  went 
slowly,  the  jolting  of  the  cart  on  the  rough,  fi'ozen  road 
was  greater  than  it  is  easy  for  one  accustomed  to  ordi- 
nary vehicles  to  imagine. 

Up  the  liill  they  went,  past  woods  of  stunted  birch 
and  ilr,  past  upland  fields,  from  whicb  the  crops  had 
long  been  cfathered.  Thev  were  makinir  direct  for  the 
southern  side  of  the  island.  While  they  ascended  there 
was  still  some  shelter  between  them  and  the  fiercest 
blast  of  the  gale,  and  they  could  still  look  down  at  the 
bomely  inn  below,  at  the  village  of  fishers'  sbeds  and 
the  dancing  waters  of  the  bay.  lie  had  only  passed  one 
night  there,  and  yet  Caius  looked  at  this  prospect  almost 
fondly.  It  seemed  familiar  in  comparison  with  the 
strange  region  into  which  he  was  going. 

When  the  ridge  was  gained  and  the  descent  began, 
the  wind  broke  upon  them  with  all  its  force.  He  looked 
below  and  saw  the  road  winding  for  a  mile  or  more 
among  the  farms  and  groves  of  the  slope,  and  then  out 
across  a  fiat  bit  of  shrub-covered  land  ;  beyond  that  was 


BKTWKHN   Till-:  Sl'IlF   AND  THE  S.WD. 


the  sjukI,  stivtcliiiiir  liorc,  it  sccinod,  in  a  tract   of  some 
s«iiiart'  niik'.s.     'l\\v  surf  was  ciiiiily  seen  like  a  cloud  at 

its  0(\^^L\ 

It  was  not  loniT  tliat  he  sat  up  to  sec  the  view.  Tlie 
pony  bepiii  to  run  (h)wn  tlie  liill  ;  the  very  straw  in  tiie 
bottom  of  the  cart  (laneed.  Cains  cast,  his  arms  ahont 
his  possessions,  fearin.;^  that,  lieavy  thoujirh  tlicy  were, 
tliey  would  l)e  thrown  out  upon  the  roadside,  ami  he  lay 
holdiuij^  tiiem.  The  wind  swept  over;  he  could  lu-ar  it 
wliistlini,^  against  the  speed  of  tli*'  cai't  ;  he  felt  it  like  ii 
knife  a,u:ainst  his  cli(>eks  as  he  hi\'.  Jle  saw  the  hoy 
brace  himself,  the  lithe,  stronir  iwuscles  of  his  hack,  ap- 
parent only  hy  the  result  of  their  action,  swayed  bal- 
ancing against  the  jolting,  while,  with  thickly-gloved 
hands,  he  grasped  the  wooden  ledgt;  on  which  lie  sat. 
In  front  O'Shea  was  like  an  image  carved  of  the  same 
wood  as  the  cart,  so  tirndy  he  held  to  it.  Well,  such 
hours  pass.  After  a  while  they  ciime  out  upon  the  soft, 
dry  sand  heyoiul  the  scrubby  ilat,  and  the  horse,  with 
impeded  footsteps,  trudged  slowly. 

The  sand  was  so  drv,  driven  bv  the  wind,  that  the 
horse  and  cart  sank  in  it  as  in  driven  snow,  'i'he  mo- 
tion, though  slow,  was  luxurious  compared  to  what  had 
been.  O'Shea  and  the  boy  h;id  s})rung  otT  the  cart,  and 
were  marching  beside  it.  Cains  cland)ered  out,  too,  to 
walk  beside  them. 

"  Ye  moight  have  stayed  in,  Mr.  Doctor,"  said 
O'Shea.     "  The  pony  is  more   than   equal   to  carrying 

ye 


5? 


Again    Caius   felt   that   O'Shea  derided   lii 


m. 


He 


hardly  knew  why  the  man's  words  always  gave  him  this 


impression,  for  his 
was  no  particular 


manner  was  civil  enough,  and  there 
reason  for  derision  apparent ;  for,  al- 


til 


98 


THE   MERMAID. 


though  O'Shoa's  figure  had  broadened  out  under  the 
weiglit  of  years,  lie  was  not  a  taller  man  than  Caius,  and 
the  latter  was  probably  the  stronger  of  the  two.  When 
Caius  glanced  later  at  the  other's  face,  it  appeared  to 
him  that  he  derived  his  impression  from  the  deep,  ray- 
like wrinkles  that  were  like  star-fish  round  the  man's 
eyes ;  but  if  so,  it  must  have  been  that  something  in  the 
quality  of  the  voice  reflected  the  expression  of  the  face, 
for  they  were  not  in  such  jjlight  as  would  enable  them 
to  observe  one  another's  faces  much.  The  icy  wind 
bore  with  it  a  burden  of  sparkling  sand,  so  that  they 
were  often  forced  to  muffle  their  faces,  walking  with 
heads  bowe<l. 

Since  Caius  would  walk,  O'Shea  ordered  the  boy 
back  into  the  cart,  and  the  two  men  ploughed  on 
through  the  sand  beside  the  horse,  whose  every  hair  was 
turned  by  the  wind,  which  now  struck  them  sideways, 
and  whose  rugged  nuine  and  forelock  were  streaming 
horizontally,  besprinkled  with  sand.  The  novelty  of 
the  situation,  the  beauty  of  the  sand- wreaths,  the  in- 
toxication of  the  air,  the  vivid  brilliancv  of  the  sun  and 
the  sky,  delighted  Caius.  The  blue  of  heaven  rounded 
the  sandscape  to  their  present  sight,  a  dome  of  blue 
flame  over  a  plain  whose  colour  was  like  that  of  an  au- 
tumn leaf  become  sear.  Caius,  in  his  exhilaration,  re- 
marked upon  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  but  either 
the  prospect  was  too  common  to  O'Shea  to  excite  his 
interest,  or  the  enterprise  he  meditated  burdened  his 
mind  ;  he  gave  few  words  in  answer,  and  soon  they,  too, 
relapsed  into  the  silence  that  the  boy  and  the  pony  had 
all  the  time  observed. 

An  hour's  walk,  and  another  sound  rang  in  their 
ears  beside  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  low  at  first  and 


BETWEEN  THE  SURF  AND  THE  SAND. 


00 


fitful,  louder  and  louder,  till  the  roar  of  the  surf  was 
deafening.  Then  they  came  to  the  hrink  and  heard  all 
the  notes  of  which  the  chords  of  its  more  distant  music 
had  heen  composed,  the  gasping  sob  of  the  under  tow, 
the  rush  of  the  lifting  wave  as  it  u})reare(l  itself  higli, 
the  silken  break  of  its  foam,  the  crash  of  drums  with 
which  it  fell,  the  dash  of  wave  against  wave,  and  the 
cry  of  the  foremost  waves  that  beinoaned  themselves 
prostrate  upon  the  beach. 

The  cart,  with  its  little  company,  turned  into  the 
narrow  strip  of  dark  damp  sand  that  the  tide  had  already 
left  bare.  Here  the  footing  was  much  firmer,  and  the 
wind  struck  them  obliquely.  The  hardy  pony  broke 
into  its  natural  pace,  a  moderate  trot.  In  spite  of  th.s 
pace,  the  progress  they  made  was  not  very  swift,  and  it 
was  already  four  by  the  clock.  O'Shea  climbed  to  his 
place  on  the  front  of  the  cart;  the  boy  sprang  down  and 
ran  to  warm  himself,  clapping  his  gloved  hands  as  he 
ran.  It  was  not  long  before  Caius  clambered  into  his 
straw  seat  again,  and,  sitting,  watched  the  wonder  of 
the  waves.  So  level  was  the  beach,  so  high  was  the  surf, 
that  from  the  low  cart  it  seemed  that  gigantic  monsters 
were  constantly  arising  from  the  sea;  and  just  as  the 
fear  of  them  overshadowed  the  fascinated  mind,  they 
melted  away  again  into  nothingnes  As  he  looked  at 
the  waves  he  saw  that  their  water,  mixed  with  sand,  was 
a  vellowish  brown,  and  dark  almost  to  black  when  the 
curling  top  yawned  before  the  downfall;  but  so  fast  did 
each  wave  break  one  upon  the  other  tluit  glossy  water 
was  only  seen  in  glimpses,  and  boiling  fields  of  foam 
and  high  crests  of  foam  were  the  main  substance  of  all 
that  was  to  be  seen  for  a  hundred  yards  from  the  shore. 
Proceeding  thus,  they  soon  came  to  what  was  actually 


^' 


100 


THE   MERMAID. 


the  end  of  tlie  island,  and  were  on  the  narrow  ridge  of 
sand-dunes  which  extended  a  distance  of  some  twenty 
miles  to  the  next  island.  The  sand-hills  rising  sheer 
from  the  shore,  fifty,  sixty,  or  a  hundred  feet  in  height, 
bordered  their  road  on  the  right.  To  avoid  the  soft  dry 
sand  of  their  base  the  pony  often  trotted  in  the  shallow 
flow  of  the  foam,  which  even  yet  now  and  then  crept 
over  all  the  damp  beach  to  the  high-'^ater  mark.  The 
wind  was  like  spur  and  lash ;  the  horse  fled  before  it. 
Eyes  and  ears  grew  accnstomed  even  to  the  threatening 
of  the  sea-monsters.  The  sun  of  the  November  after- 
noon sank  nearer  and  ne.'irer  the  level  of  sand  and  foam  ; 
they  could  not  see  the  ocean  beyond  the  foam.  When 
it  grew  large  and  ruddy  in  the  level  atmosphere,  and 
some  flnkes  of  red,  red  gold  appeared  round  it,  lying 
where  the  edge  of  the  sea  must  be,  like  the  Islands  of 
the  l^lessed,  when  the  crests  of  the  breakers  near  and 
far  began  to  be  touched  with  a  fiery  glow,  when  the  soft 
dun  brown  of  the  sand-hills  turneil  to  gold,  Caius,  over- 
come with  having  walked  and  eaten  much,  and  drunk 
deeply  of  the  wine  of  the  wild  salt  wind,  fell  into  a 
heavy  dreamless  slumber,  lying  outstretched  upon  his 
bed  of  straw. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


WHERE   THE    DEVIL    LIVED. 


Catus  did  not  know  how  long  he  slept.  He  woke 
with  II  sudden  start  and  a  presentiment  of  evil.  It  was 
quite  dark,  as  blaek  as  starlight  night  could  be;  for  the 
foam  of  the  waves  hardly  glimmered  to  sight,  except 
here  and  there  where  some  phosphorescent  jelly  was 
tossed  among  them  like  a  blue  death-light.  What  had 
M'akened  Caius  was  the  sound  of  voices  talking  ahead  of 
the  cart,  and  the  jerk  of  the  cart  as  it  was  evidently 
being  driven  olf  the  smooth  beach  on  to  a  very  rough 
and  steep  incline. 

He  sat  up  and  strove  to  pierce  the  darkness  by  sight. 
Thev  had  come  to  no  end  of  their  iourney.  The  long 
beach,  with  its  walls  of  foam  and  oi  dune,  stretched  on 
without  change.  But  upon  this  beach  they  were  no 
longer  travelling;  the  horse  was  headed,  as  it  were,  to 
the  dune,  and  now  began  to  climb  its  almost  uj)riglit 
side. 

With  an  imprecation  he  threw  himself  out  of  the 
cart  at  a  bound  into  sand  so  soft  that  he  sank  up  to  the 
knees  and  stumbled  against  the  upright  side  of  the 
hill.  The  lower  voice  he  had  heard  was  silent  instantly. 
O'Shea  stopped  the  pony  with  a  sharp  word  of  interro- 
gation. 

101 


m 


n 


102 


THE  MERMAID. 


"Where  are  you  going V"  shouted  Cuius.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

lie  need  iu)t  have  shouted,  for  tlie  wind  was  swift  to 
carry  all  sounds  from  his  lips  to  O'Shea ;  but  the  hitter's 
voice,  as  it  came  back  to  liim,  seemed  to  stagger  against 
the  force  of  the  wind  and  almost  to  fail. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  Well,  we're  going  roight  up 
towards  the  sky  at  present,  but  in  a  minute  we'll  be 
going  roight  down  towards  the  other  place.  If  ye  just 
keep  on  at  that  side  of  the  cart  ye'll  get  into  a  place 
where  we'll  have  a  bit  of  shelter  and  reut  till  the  moon 


rises 


95 


"What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  turning  off 
the  road  for?"  Cains  shouted  again,  half  dazed  by  his 
sleep  and  sudden  awakening,  and  wholly  angry  at  the 
disagreeable  situation.  lie  was  cold,  his  limbs  almost 
•'.uimb,  and  to  his  sleepy  brain  came  the  sudden  remem- 
brance of  the  round  valleys  in  the  dune  of  which  he  had 
heard,  and  the  person  who  lived  in  them. 

His  voice  was  inadequately  loud.  The  ebullition  of 
his  rage  evidently  amused  O'Shea,  for  he  laughed;  and 
while  Cains  listened  to  his  laughter  and  succeeding 
words,  it  seemed  to  him  that  some  spirit,  not  diabolic, 
hovered  near  them  in  the  air,  for  among  the  sounds  of 
the  rushing  of  the  wind  and  of  the  sea  came  the  soft 
sound  of  another  sort  of  laughter,  suppressed,  but 
breaking  forth,  as  if  in  spite  of  itself,  with  irresistible 
amusement;  and  altho  igh  Caius  felt  that  it  was  in- 
dulged at  his  own  expense,  yet  he  loved  it,  and  would 
fain  have  joined  in  its  persuasive  merriment.  While 
the  pc  ical  part  of  him  listened,  trying  to  catch  this 
illusive  sound,  his  more  commonplace  faculties  were 
engaged  by  the  answer  of  O'Shea : 


WHERE  THE  DEVIL  LIVED. 


103 


e 

,s 
e 


"It's  just  as  ye  loiko,  Mr.  Doctor.  You  can  go  on 
towards  The  Cloiul  bv  the  beacli  if  vou've  L^ot  cat's  eves, 
or  if  yon  can  feel  with  your  toes  where  tlie  quicksands 
loy;  but  tlie  i)ony  and  me  are  gnin<;  to  take  siielter  till 
the  moon's  up." 

"  Well,  where  are  you  going?"  asked  Caius.  "CaiTt 
you  tell  me  plainly?  I  never  heard  of  a  horse  that  could 
climb  a  wall." 

"And  if  the  little  beast  is  <?ood-naturcd  enoui!:h  to 
do  it  for  ye,  it's  as  shabby  a  trick  as  I  know  to  keep  him 
lialf-way  up  with  the  cart  at  his  back.  He's  a  cliver 
little  pony,  but  he's  not  a  floy;  and  I  never  knew  that 
even  a  Hoy  could  stand  on  a  wall  with  a  cart  and  doctor's 
medicine  bags  a-hanging  on  to  it.     G'tup  !  " 

This  last  sound  was  addressed  to  the  pony,  which  in 
the  darkness  began  once  more  its  astonishing  progress 
up  the  sand-hill. 

The  plea  for  mercy  to  the  liorse  entered  Caius'  rea- 
son. The  spirit-like  laughter  had  in  some  mysterious 
way  sootlied  his  heart,  lie  stood  still,  detaining  O'Shea 
no  longer,  and  dimly  saw  the  horse  and  cart  climb  up 
above  him.  O'Shea  climbed  lirst,  for  his  tones  were 
heard  caressing  and  coaxing  the  pony,  which  lie  led. 
Caius  saw  the  cart,  a  black  mass,  disappear  over  the  top 
of  the  hill,  which  was  here  not  more  than  twentv  feet 
high.  When  it  was  gone  he  could  dimlv  descrv  a  dark 
figure,  which  he  supposed  to  be  the  boy,  standing  on  the 
top,  as  if  waiting  to  see  what  he  would  do ;  so,  after 
holding  short  counsel  with  himself,  he,  too,  began  to 
stagger  upward,  marvelling  more  and  more  at  the  feat 
of  the  pony  as  he  went,  for  though  the  precipice  was 
not  perpendicular,  it  had  this  added  difficulty,  that  all 
its  particles  shifted  as  they  were  touched.     There  was, 


i  1^ 


■    ■'.■ 


104 


THE  iMEKMAlD. 


1 


h  'i 


liowevor,  some  soliil  substuiice  underneath,  for,  catcliing 
at  tlie  sand  grasses,  clambering  rather  than  walking,  ho 
soon  found  himself  at  the  to]),  and  would  have  fallen 
headlong  if  he  had  not  perceived  that  there  was  no  level 
sjiace  by  seeing  the  boy  already  half-way  down  a  descent, 
■which,  it  it  was  unexpected,  was  less  precipitous,  and 
composed  of  firmer  ground.  lie  heard  O'Shea  and  the 
cart  a  good  way  further  on,  and  fancied  he  saw  them 
moving.  The  boy,  at  least,  just  kept  within  his  sight; 
and  so  he  followed  down  into  a  hollow,  where  he  felt  crisp, 
low-growing  herbage  beneath  his  feet,  and  by  looking  up 
at  the  stars  he  could  observe  that  its  sandy  walls  rose 
all  around  him  like  a  cup.  On  the  side  farthest  from 
the  sea  the  walls  of  the  hollow  rose  so  high  that  in  the 
darkness  they  looked  like  a  mountainous  region. 

They  had  gone  down  out  of  the  reach  of  the  gale ; 
and  althougli  light  airs  still  blew  about  them,  liere  the 
lull  was  so  great  that  it  seemed  like  going  out  of  winter 
into  a  softer  clime. 

When  Cains  came  up  with  the  cart  he  found  that  the 
traces  had  already  been  unfastened  and  the  pony  set 
loose  to  graze. 

"Is  there  anything  for  him  to  eat?"  asked  Caius 
curiously,  glad  also  to  establish  some  friendly  interchange 
of  thought. 

"One  doesn't  travel  on  these  sands,"  said  O'Shea, 
"  with  a  horse  that  can't  feed  itself  on  the  things  that 
grow  in  the  sand.  It's  the  first  necessary  quality  for  a 
horse  in  these  parts." 

"What  sort  of  things  grow  here?"  asked  Caius,  paw- 
ing the  ground  with  his  foot. 

He  could  not  quite  get  over  the  inward  impression 
that  the  mountainous-looking  region  of  the  dune  over 


' 


WHERE  THE   DEVIL  LIVED. 


105 


acfiiinst  them  was  towered  with  inferiiul  puhices,  so  weird 
was  tlie  phi    >. 

O'Siiea's  voi(;e  came  out  of  the  darkness;  liis  form 
was  hardly  to  be  seen. 

"  Sit  yourself  down,  Mr.  Doctor,  and  have  some  bread 
and  cheese — that  is,  if  ye've  sulliciently  forgotten  tlie 
poies  of  tlie  old  nuiids.  The  things  that  grow  here  are 
good  enough  to  sit  on,  and  that's  all  we  want  of  them, 
not  being  ponies." 

The  answer  was  once  more  an  insult  in  its  allusion 
to  the  })ies  (Caius  was  again  liungry),  and  in  its  refusal 
of  simple  information ;  but  the  tone  was  more  cheerful, 
and  O'Shea  had  relaxed  from  his  extreme  brevity. 
Caius  sat  down,  and  felt  almost  convivial  wlien  he 
found  that  a  parcel  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  huge 
bottle  of  cold  tea  were  to  be  shared  between  them. 
Either  the  food  was  j)erfect  of  its  kind  or  his  appetite 
good  sauce,  for  never  had  anything  tasted  sweeter  than 
the  meal.  They  all  three  squatted  in  the  darkness 
round  the  contents  of  the  ample  parcel,  and  if  they  said 
little  it  was  because  they  ate  much. 

Caius  found  by  the  light  of  a  match  that  his  watch 
told  it  was  the  hour  of  seven ;  they  had  been  at  hard 
travel  for  more  than  four  hours,  and  had  come  to  a  bit 
of  the  beach  which  could  not  be  traversed  without  more 
light.  In  another  hour  the  moon  would  be  up  and  the 
horse  rested. 

When  the  meal  was  finished,  each  rested  in  his  own 
way.  O'Shea  laid  himself  fiat  upon  his  back,  with  a 
blanket  over  his  feet.  The  boy  slipped  away,  and  was 
not  seen  until  the  waving  grass  on  the  tops  of  the 
highest  dunes  became  a  fringe  of  silver.  lentil  then 
Caius  paced  the  valley,  coming  occasionally  in  contact 


lOG 


THE  MERMAID. 


1; 


>;•'. 


M' 


with  tlie  browsing  pony;  but  neitlier  his  walk  nor 
nic'diliition  was  interrupted  by  more  formidable  pres- 
ence. 

''  Ay — ee — )io — ee — ho  !  "  It  was  a  rallying  call,  a 
shrill  cry,  from  O'Siiea.  It  broke  the  silence  the  instant 
that  the  nu)on's  first  ray  had  touched  the  dune.  The 
man  must  have  been  lying  looking  at  the  highest  head, 
for  when  Caius  heard  the  uiu'xpected  sound  he  looked 
round  more  than  once  before  he  discovered  its  cause, 
and  then  knew  that  while  he  had  been  walking  the 
whole  heaven  and  earth  had  become  lighter  by  im- 
perceptible degrees.  As  he  watched  now,  the  momen- 
tary brightening  was  very  perceptible.  The  lieights  and 
shadows  of  the  sand-hills  stood  out  to  sight ;  he  could 
see  the  line  where  the  low  herbage  stopped  and  the 
waving  bent  began.  In  the  sky  the  stars  faded  in  a 
pallid  2^ulf  of  violet  light.  The  mystery  of  the  place 
was  less,  its  beauty  a  thousandfold  greater :  and  the 
beauty  was  still  of  the  dream-exciting  kind  that  made 
him  long  to  climb  all  its  hills  and  seek  in  all  its  hollows, 
for  there  are  some  scenes  that,  by  their  very  contour, 
suggest  more  than  they  display,  and  in  which  the 
human  mind  cannot  rid  itself  of  the  notion  that  the 
physical  aspect  is  not  all  that  there  is  to  be  seen.  But 
whatever  the  charm  of  the  place,  now  that  light  had 
revealed  it  Caius  must  leave  it. 

The  party  put  themselves  in  line  of  march  once 
more.  The  boy  had  gone  on  up  where  the  wall  of  the 
dell  was  lowest,  and  Caius  tramped  beside  O'Shea,  who 
led  the  pony. 

Once  up  from  the  hollow,  their  eyes  wero  dazzled  at 
first  with  the  flash  of  the  moonlight  upon  the  water. 
From  the  top  of  the  sand  ridge  they  could  see  the  sea 


II 


WHERE   THE   DEVIL  LIVED. 


107 


out  beyond  tlie  surf — a  measureless  pur})le  waste  on 
which  far  breakers  rose  and  blossomed  for  a  moment 
like  a  hed<:fe  of  whitethorn  in  May,  and  sank  aizain  with 
a  glint  of  black  in  the  shadow  of  the  next  uprisin,<x. 

They  went  down  once  more  where  they  could  seo 
nothing  but  the  surf  and  the  sand-hills.  The  boy  had 
walked  far  on ;  they  saw  his  coated  and  cowled  figure 
swaying  with  the  motion  of  his  walk  on  the  shining 
beach  in  front.  The  tide  was  at  its  lowest.  What  the 
fishermen  had  said  of  it  was  true:  with  the  wind  beat- 
ing it  up  it  had  gone  down  but  a  third  of  its  rightiul 
distance ;  and  now  the  strip  that  it  had  to  traverse  to 
be  full  again  seemed  alarmingly  narrow,  for  a  great  part 
of  their  journey  was  still  to  be  made.  The  two  men  got 
up  on  the  cart ;  the  boy  leaped  up  when  they  reached 
liim,  before  O'Shea  could  bring  it  to  full  stop  for  him, 
and  on  they  went.  Even  the  poi  y  seemed  to  realize 
that  there  was  need  of  haste. 

They  had  travelled  about  two  miles  more  when,  in 
front  of  them,  a  cape  of  rock  was  seen  jutting  across  the 
beach,  its  rocky  }ieadland  stretching  far  into  the  sea. 
Caius  believed  that  the  end  of  their  journey  was  near; 
he  looked  eagerly  at  the  new  land,  and  saw  that  there 
were  houses  upon  the  top  of  the  cliff.  It  seemed  un- 
necessary even  to  ask  if  this  was  their  destination. 
Secure  in  his  belief,  he  willingly  got  off  the  cart  at  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  and  trudged  behind  it,  while  O'Shea 
drove  up  a  track  in  the  sand  which  had  the  similitude 
of  a  road  ;  rough,  soft,  precipitous  as  it  was,  it  still  bore 
tracks  of  wheels  and  feet,  where  too  far  inland  to  be 
washed  by  the  w%aves.  The  sight  of  them  was  like  the 
sight  of  shore  to  one  who  has  been  long  at  sea.  They 
went  up  to  the  back  of  the  cliff,  and  came  upon  its  high 
8 


11? 


lOS 


TIIH   MEUMAII). 


grassy  top;  tlio  road  led  tliroii«;li  wliorc  small  houses 
wore  thickly  clustered  on  cither  side.  Cains  looked  for 
candle,  or  lire,  or  human  beijiir,  and  saw  none,  and  they 
had  not  travelled  far  alon;^  the  street  of  this  lifeless 
villa^^'  when  he  saw  that  the  road  led  on  down  the  other 
side  of  the  headland,  and  that  the  beaeii  and  the  dune 
stretched  ahead  of  them  exactly  as  they  stretched 
behind. 

"  Is  this  a  villa.iro  of  the  dead?"  lie  asked  O'Shea. 

The  num  O'Shea  seemed  to  have  in  him  some  freak 
of  perverseness  which  made  it  hard  for  him  to  answer 
the  simplest  question.  It  was  almost  by  force  that 
Cains  jj^ot  from  him  the  exi)lanation  tluit  the  village  was 
only  used  during  certain  fishing  seasons,  and  abandoned 
during  the  winter — nnless,  indeed,  its  houses  were 
broken  into  by  shipwrecked  sailors,  whose  lives  de- 
pended upon  linding  means  of  warmth. 

The  cart  descended  from  the  cliif  by  the  same  sandy 
road,  and  the  pony  again  trotted  upon  the  beach  ;  its 
trot  was  deceptive,  for  it  liad  the  appearance  of  making 
more  way  than  it  did.  On  they  went — on,  on,  over  this 
wonderful  burnished  highroad  which  the  sea  and  the 
moonlight  had  laid  for  their  travel.  Behind  and  before, 
look  as  they  would,  they  could  see  only  the  weird  white 
hills  of  sand,  treeless,  almost  shadowless  now,  the  sea- 
horses foaming  and  plunging  in  endless  line,  and  be- 
tween them  the  road,  whose  apparent  narrowing  in  the 
far  perspective  was  but  an  emblem  of  the  truth  that  the 
waves  were  encroaching  upon  it  inch  by  inch. 


ClIAPTKR   V. 


DEVJLUY. 


WilKN  tlio  cart  and  its  little  company  had  travelled 
for  almost  another  hour,  a  dark  oi)ject  in  the  midst  of 
the  line  of  foam  caught  their  sight.  It  was  the  boy  who 
first  saw  it,  and  he  suddenly  leaned  forward,  clutching 
O'Shea's  arm  as  if  in  fear. 

Tiie  man  looked  steadily. 

"  She's  come  in  since  we  passed  here  before." 

The  boy  apparently  said  something,  although  Caiua 
could  not  catch  tlie  voice. 

"No,"  said  O'Shea;  "there's  cargo  aboard  of  her 
yit,  but  the  men  are  oft  of  her." 

It  was  a  black  ship  that,  sailless  and  with  masts  })iti- 
fully  aslant,  was  fixed  on  the  sand  among  the  surf,  and 
the  movement  of  the  water  made  her  a})pear  to  labour 
forward  as  if  in  dying  throes  making  effort  to  reach  the 
shore. 

The  boy  seemed  to  scan  the  prospect  before  him  now 
far  more  eagerly  than  before ;  but  the  wreck,  which  was, 
as  O'Shea  said,  deserted,  seemed  to  be  the  only  external 
object  in  all  that  gleaming  waste.  They  passed  on, 
drawing  up  for  a  minute  near  her  at  the  boy's  instiga- 
tion, and  scanning  her  decks  narrowly  as  they  were 
washed  by  the  waves,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life.     Be- 


I' 


110 


THE  MERMAID. 


^11 


fore  thoy  had  f^ono  furtlior  Cuius  cauf^lit  sip^lit  of  the 
dark  outline  of  another  wreck  ;  but  tiiis  one  was  evi- 
dently of  some  weeks'  standin^^  for  the  masts  were  gone 
and  the  hulk  half  broken  through.  There  was  still 
another  further  out.  'J'he  mere  repetition  of  the  sad 
story  had  elfeet  to  make  the  scene  seem  more  desolate. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sands  on  which  thev  trod  must  be 
strewed  with  the  bleached  skeletons  of  sailors,  and  as  if 
they  embedded  newly-buried  cor])ses  in  their  breast. 
The  sandhills  here  were  higher  than  they  had  been  be- 
fore, and  there  were  openings  between  the  u  as  if  pas- 
sages led  into  the  interior  valleys,  so  that  Cuius  su])posed 
that  here  in  storms  or  in  Hood- tides  the  waves  might 
enter  into  the  heart  of  the  dune. 

They  had  not  travelled  far  beyond  the  first  and  near- 
est wreck,  when  the  monotony  of  their  journey  Mas 
broken  by  a  sudden  strange  excitement  -which  seized  on 
them  all,  and  which  Cuius,  although  he  felt  it,  did  not 
at  once  understand. 

The  pony  was  jerked  back  by  the  reins  which  O'Shca 
held,  then  turned  staggering  inland,  and  lashed  forward 
by  the  whip,  used  for  the  first  time  that  day.  Caius, 
jerked  against  the  side  of  the  cart,  lifted  up  a  bruised 
head,  gazing  in  wonder  to  see  nothing  in  the  path ;  but 
he  saw  that  the  boy  had  sprung  lightly  from  the  cart, 
and  was  standing  higher  up  on  the  sand,  his  wliole 
attitude  betraying  alarm  as  he  gazed  searchingly  at  tli3 
ground. 

In  a  moment  the  pony  reared  and  plunged,  and  then 
uttered  a  cry  almost  human  in  its  fear.  Then  came  the 
sensation  of  sinking,  sinking  with  the  very  earth  itself. 
O'Shea  had  jumped  from  the  cart  and  cut  the  traces. 
Caius  was  springing  out,  and  felt  his  spring  guided  by  a 


I 


I 


a 


DFA'IIJIV. 


Ill 


' 


I 


liiunl  upon  liis  arm.  lie  coiiltl  not  liavo  Ix'lii'Vcd  tluit 
the  boy  luul  so  much  strcni^^li,  yrt,  with  a  motion  too 
r|iii('k  for  explaining:  words,  he  was  ijiiich'd  to  a  cfrtain 
])art  of  tlio  sand,  piislicd  aside  lik(!  a  cluld  to  lu*  safe, 
while  the  ])oy  with  his  next  a^MJe  movement  tuiririMl  at 
tlie  })ortmanteans  that  (Contained  the  medical  stores,  and 
lhini(  them  at  Cains'  feet. 

It  was  a  quicksand.  The  pony  cried  a^jain — cried  to 
tlieiu  for  lu'l[).  Cains  next  found  himself  with  O'Shea 
holdiii;^  the  creatiire's  head,  and  aidin^^  its  mad  pluni;- 
inij,  even  while  his  own  feet  sank  deeper  and  deeper. 
There  was  a  moment  when  they  all  three  pluntred  for- 
ward to<(ether,  and  then  the  pony  threw  itself  upon  its 
side,  by  sonu*  wild  elVort  extricatini^  its  feet,  aiul  Caius, 
prone  upon  the  quiverinji,^  head,  rolled  himself  aiuI 
drag^'ed  it  forward.  'I'hen  he  felt  strong  hands  lifting 
him  and  the  horse  together. 

AVluit  seemed  strangest  to  Caius,  when  he  could  look 
about  and  think,  was  that  he  had  now  four  companions 
— the  boy,  O'Shea,  and  two  other  men,  coated  ami 
mu tiled — and  that  the  four  were  all  talking  together 
eagerly  in  a  language  of  which  he  did  not  understand  a 
word. 

lie  shook  the  wet  sand  from  his  clothes;  his  legs 
and  arms  were  wet.  The  pony  stood  in  an  entrance  to 
a  gap  in  the  sjind-hills,  quivering  and  gasping,  but  safe, 
albeit  with  one  leg  hurt.  The  cart  had  sunk  down  till 
its  flat  bottom  lay  on  the  top  of  the  quicksand,  and 
there  appeared  to  float,  for  it  sunk  no  further.  A  white 
cloud  that  had  winged  its  way  up  from  the  south-west 
now  drifted  over  the  moon,  and  became  black  except  at 
its  edges.  The  world  grew  much  darker,  and  it  seemed 
colder,  if  that  were  possible. 


'1 


m 


Is*'*!-/-:  1  ; 

m  \ 


112 


THE  iMERMAID. 


It  soon  occurred  to  Cains  tliat  tlie  two  men  now 
added  to  tlu'ir  party  had  either  met  O'Sliea  by  a})poiiit- 
meiit,  or  liad  been  lying  in  wait  for  tlie  cart,  knowing 
tliat  tlie  quicksand  was  also  waiting  to  euLTulf  it.  It  ap- 
peared to  him  that  their  motives  must  be  evil,  and  lie 
was  not  slow  to  suspect  0\Shea  of  being  in  some  })lot 
with  them,  lie  had,  of  course,  money  upon  him,  enough 
certainlv  to  attract  the  cupidity  of  men  who  could  sel- 
dom  handle  money,  and  the  medical  stores  were  also 
convertible  into  money.  It  struck  liim  now  how  rash 
he  had  been  to  come  upon  this  lonely  drive  without  any 
assurance  of  O'Shea's  respectability. 

These  thoughts  came  to  him  because  he  almost  im- 
mediately perceived  that  he  was  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. It  seemed  odd  to  stand  so  near  them  and  not  un- 
derstand a  word  they  said.  He  heard  enough  now  to 
know  the  language  they  were  speaking  was  the  patois 
that,  in  those  parts,  is  the  descendant  of  the  Jersey 
French.  These  men,  then,  were  Acadians — the  boy  also, 
for  he  gabbled  freelv  to  them.  Either  tliev  had  sinister 
designs  on  him,  or  he  was  an  obstructi(»n  to  some  pur- 
pose that  they  wished  to  accomplish.  This  was  evident 
now  from  their  tones  and  gestures.  'I'hey  were  talking 
most  vehemently  about  him,  especially  the  boy  and 
0\Shea,  and  it  was  evident  that  these  two  disagreed,  or 
at  least  could  not  for  some  time  agree,  as  to  what  was  to 
be  his  fate. 

Caius  was  defenceless,  for  so  peaceful  was  the  coun- 
try to  which  he  was  accustomed  that  he  carried  no 
weapon.  He  took  his  present  "danger  little  to  heart. 
There  was  a  strange  buoyancy — born,  no  doubt,  of  the 
bracing  wind — in  his  spirit.  If  they  were  goitig  to  kill 
him — well,  he  would  die  hard ;  and  a  man  can  but  die 


I 


n 


DEVILRY. 


113 


I 


once.  A  langli  arose  from  the  men  ;  it  sounded  to  liim 
as  strange  a  sound,  for  the  time  ami  phice,  as  the  almost 
liuman  cry  of  the  horse  a  few  minutes  before.  Then 
O'.Shea  came  towards  liim  witli  menacing  gestures.  'J'lie 
two  men  went  back  into  the  gap  of  the  sand-hills  from 
wlience  tliey  must  have  come. 

"Look  here/'  said  0\Shea  roughly,  ''do  ye  value 
your  lifey" 

"  Certainly.'' 

Cains  folded  his  arms,  and  made  this  answer  Avith 
well-bred  contem])t. 

"  And  ye  shall  have  your  life,  but  on  one  condition. 
Take  out  of  vonr  basfs  what's  needed  for  dealing  with 
the  sick  this  noight,  for  there's  a  dying  man  ye  must 
visit  before  ye  sleep,  aiul  the  condition  is  iliat  ye  walk 
on  to  The  Cloud  by  yourself  on  this  beach  without  once 
looking  behoind  ye.  Moind  what  I  say!  Ye  shall  go 
free — verseif,  yer  monev,  and  ver  midicines — if  ve  walk 
from  liere  to  the  second  liouse  that  is  a  loi<dithouso 
without  once  turning  yer  head  or  looking  behoind  ye." 
lie  pointed  to  the  bags  with  a  gesture  of  rude  authority. 
"  Take  out  what  ye  need,  and  begone  ! " 

"  I  sliall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  Cains,  liis 
arms  still  folded. 

The  boy  had  come  near  cnongli  to  hear  what  was 
said,  bnt  he  did  not  interfere. 

"And  why  not?"  asked  O'Shoa,  a  jeer  in  his  tones. 

"  Because  I  wonld  not  trust  one  of  you  not  to  kill 
me  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned." 

"  And  if  your  hiwk  isn't  turned,  and  that  pretty 
qnick,  too,  ye'U  not  live  many  hours." 

"  I  prefer  to  die  looking  death  in  the  face;  bnt  it'll 
be  hard  for  the  man  avIio  atteni2)ts  to  toiudi  me." 


i  ! 


lU 


THE   MERMAID. 


"Oh!  ye  think  ye'll  foight  for  it,  do  ye?"  asked 
O'Slie.'i  lightly;  "but  ye're  mistaken  there — the  death 
ye  shall  dole  will  admit  of  no  foighting  on  your  part." 

"  There  is  something  more  in  all  this  business  than 
T  nnderstand."  Apart  from  the  question  whether  he 
should  die  or  live,  Caius  was  puzzled  to  nnderstand  why 
his  enemies  had  themselves  fallen  foul  of  the  quicksand, 
or  what  connection  the  accident  could  have  with  the 
attack  upon  his  life.  "  There  is  more  in  this  than  I  un- 
derstand," he  repeated  loudly. 

"Just  so,"  replied  O'Shea,  imperturbable  ;  "there  is 
more  than  ye  can  understand,  and  I  offer  ye  a  free  pas- 
sage to  a  safe  place.  Haven't  ye  wits  enough  about  ye 
to  take  it  and  be  thankful  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  turn  my  back."  Caius  reiterated  his  de- 
fiance. 

"  And  ye'll  stroike  out  with  yer  fist  at  whatever 
comes  to  harm  ye  ?  Will  ye  hit  in  the  face  of  the  frost 
and  the  wind  if  ye're  left  here  to  ])erisli  by  cold,  with 
your  clothes  wet  as  they  are?  or  perhaps  ye'll  come  to 
blows  with  the  quicksand  if  half  a  dozen  of  us  should 
throw  ye  in  there." 

"  There  are  not  half  a  dozen  of  you,"  he  replied 
scorn  fullv. 

"Come  and  see."  O'Shea  did  not  offer  to  touch 
him,  but  he  began  to  walk  towards  the  opening  in  the 
dune,  and  dragged  Caius  after  him  by  mere  force  of 
words.  "  Come  and  see  for  yourself.  What  are  ye  afraid 
of,  man  ?  Come  !  if  ye  want  to  look  death  in  the  face, 
come  and  see  what  it  is  ye've  got  to  look  at." 

Caius  followed  reluctantly,  keeping  his  own  distance. 
O'Shea  passed  the  shivering  pony,  and  went  into  the 
opening  of  the  dune,  which  was  now  all  in  shadow  be- 


DEVILRY. 


Ii 

le 
f 
1 


115 


Pause  of  the  black  cloud  in  the  sky.  Inside  was  a  small 
vallov.  Its  sand-banks  might  have  been  made  of  l)leached 
bones,  they  looked  so  gray  and  dead.  Just  witliin  the 
opening  was  an  unexpected  sight — a  row  of  hooded  aiul 
muffled  figures  stood  upright  in  the  sand.  There  was 
something  appalling  in  the  sight  to  Caius.  Kach  man 
was  placed  at  exactly  the  same  distance  from  his  fellow; 
they  seemed  to  stand  with  heads  bowed,  and  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  their  breasts  ;  faces  and  hands,  like 
their  forms,  were  hooded  and  munied.  Caius  did  not 
think,  or  analyze  his  emotion.  No  doubt  the  regular 
fde  of  the  men,  suggesting  discijiline  which  has  such 
terrible  force  for  weal  or  woe,  ami  their  attitudes,  sug- 
gesting motives  and  thoughts  of  which  he  could  form 
not  the  faintest  explaiuition,  were  the  two  elements 
which  made  the  scene  fearful  to  him. 

O'Shea  stopped  a  few  paces  from  the  nearest  figure, 
and  Caius  stopped  a  few  paces  nearer  the  opening  of  the 
dune. 

"  Ye  see  these  men  ?  "  said  O'Sliea. 

Caius  did  not  answer. 

O'Shea  raised  his  voice  : 

"  I  say  before  them  what  I  have  said,  that  if  ye'll 
swear  here  before  heaven,  as  a  man  of  honour,  tluit 
ye'U  walk  from  here  to  tiie  loighthouse  on  The  Cloud — 
which  ye  shall  find  in  the  straight  loine  of  the  beach 
— without  once  turning  yer  head  or  looking  behoind  ye, 
neither  man  nor  beast  nor  devil  shall  do  ve  anv  hurt, 
and  yer  properties  shall  bo  returned  to  ye  when  a  cart 
can  be  got  to  take  them.     "Will  ye  swear  ?  " 

Caius  made  no  answer.  He  was  looking  intently 
As  soon  as  the  tones  of  O'Shea's  voice  were  carried 
away  by  the  bluster  of  the  wind,  as  far  as  the  human 


I 


i\ 


116 


THE  MERMAID. 


Mi    i 


beings  there  were  concerned  there  was  perfect  stillness ; 
the  surf  und  the  wind  might  huve  been  sweeping  the 
dunes  alone. 

"And  if  I  will  not  swear?"  asked  Caius,  in  a  voice 
that  was  loud  enough  to  reach  to  the  last  man  in  the 
long  single  rank. 

O'Shea  stepped  nearer  him,  and,  as  if  in  jiretence  of 
wiping  his  face  with  his  gloved  hand,  he  sent  him  a 
hissing  whisper  that  gave  a  sudden  change  of  friend- 
liness and  confidence  to  his  voice,  "  Don't  be  a  fool ! 
swear  it." 

"  Are  these  men,  or  are  they  corpses  ?  "  asked  Caius. 

The  stillness  of  the  forms  before  him  became  an 
almost  unendurable  spectacle. 

He  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  O'Sliea  appealed  to 
the  men,  shouting  words  in  the  queer  guttural  French. 
And  Caius  saw  the  first  man  slowdy  raise  his  hand  as  if 
in  an  attitude  of  oath-taking,  and  the  second  man  did 
likewise.  CShea  turned  round  and  faced  him,  speak- 
ing hastily.  The  shadow  of  the  cloud  was  sending  dark 
shudderings  of  lighter  and  darker  shades  across  the  sand 
hollow,  and  these  seemed  almost  like  a  visible  body  of 
the  wind  that  with  searching  blast  drifted  loose  sand 
upon  them  all.  With  the  ^  weep  of  the  shadow  and  the 
wind,  Caius  saw  the  movement  of  the  lifted  hand  go 
down  the  line. 

"  I  lay  my  loife  upon  it,"  said  O'Shea,  "  that  if  ye'll 
say  on  yer  honour  as  a  man,  and  as  a  gintleman,  that 
ye'll  not  look  behoind  ye,  ye  shall  go  scot-free.  It's  a 
simple  thing  enough  ;  what  harm's  there  in  it?  " 

The  boy  had  come  near  behind  Caius.  He  said  one 
soft  word,  "  Promise  !  "  or  else  Caius  imagined  he  said 
it.     Caius  knew  at  least  what  the  bov  wished  him  to  do. 


DEVILRY, 


117 


Tlio  pony  moved  nearer,  shivering  with  cold,  and 
Cains  realized  that  the  condition  of  wet  and  cold  in 
which  tliey  were  need  not  be  prol()n<j^ed. 

"  I  promise,"  he  shouted  angrily,  '"and  I'll  keep  the 
promise,  whatever  infernal  reason  there  may  be  for  it; 

but  if  I'm  attacked  from  behind "    lie  added  threats 

loud  and  violent,  for  lie  was  verv  an<n-v. 

liefore  he  had  flnislied  speaking — the  thought  might 
have  been  brought  by  some  movement  in  tlie  shadow  of 
the  cloud,  and  bv  the  sound  of  the  wind,  or  l)v  his 
heated  brain — but  the  thought  came  to  him  that  0\Shea, 
under  his  big  fur-coat,  had  indulged  in  strange,  harsh 
laughter. 

Cains  cared  nothing.  lie  had  nuule  his  decision; 
lie  had  given  his  word  ;  he  had  no  thought  now  biic  to 
take  what  of  his  traps  he  could  carry  and  be  gone  on 
his  journey. 


im 


11  -I 


CHAPTER  VI. 


11 

L    t 


I       1. 


IM 


ill 


TITK    SEA-MAID. 

Caii'S  understood  that  lie  had  still  three  miles  of  the 
level  beach  to  tread.  At  first  he  hardly  felt  the  sand 
under  his  feet,  they  were  so  dead  with  cold.  The  spray 
from  the  roaring  tide  struck  his  face  sideways.  He  had 
time  now  to  watch  each  variation,  each  in  and  out  of 
the  dune,  and  he  looked  at  them  eagerly,  as  the  only 
change  that  was  afforded  to  the  monotony.  Then  for 
the  first  time  he  learned  how  completely  a  man  is  shut 
out  from  all  one  half  of  the  world  by  the  simple  com- 
mand not  to  look  behind  him,  and  all  the  unseen  half 
of  his  world  became  rife,  in  his  thought,  with  mysteri- 
ous creatures  and  their  works.  At  first  he  felt  that  he 
was  courting  certain  death  by  keeping  the  word  he  had 
given  ;  in  the  clap  of  the  waves  he  seemed  to  hear  the 
pistol-shot  that  was  to  be  his  doom,  or  the  knife-like 
breath  of  the  wind  seemed  the  dagger  in  the  hand  of  a 
followiTig  murderer.  But  as  he  went  on  and  no  evil 
fate  befell,  his  fear  died,  and  only  curiosity  remained— 
a  curiosity  so  lively  that  it  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  stretch 
of  the  surf  behind  him,  upon  his  own  footsteps  left  on 
the  soft  sand,  upon  the  sand-hills  that  he  had  passed, 
although  they  were  almost  the  same  as  the  sand-hills 
that  were  before.     It  would  have  been  a  positive  joy  to 

118 


'^:i 


THE  SEA-MAID. 


119 


him  to  turn  and  look  at  any  of  these  tlnno:s.  Wliile  his 
mind  dwelt  upon  it,  he  almost  grudged  each  advancing 
step,  hecause  it  put  more  of  the  interesting  world  into 
the  redon  from  which  he  was  shut  out  as  whollv  as  if  a 
wall  of  separation  sprang  up  between  the  behind  and 
before. 

By  an  effort  of  will  he  turned  his  thought  from  this 
desire,  or  from  considering  what  the  mysterious  some- 
thing could  be  that  it  was  all-important  for  him  not  to 
see,  or  who  it  was  that  in  this  desolate  place  would  spy 
upon  him  if  he  broke  his  vow. 

Wlien  his  activity  had  set  the  blood  again  coursing 
•warmly  in  his  veins,  all  that  was  paltry  and  depressing 
passed  from  his  mind  and  heart,  as  a  mist  is  rolled  away 
by  the  wind.  Tlie  sweet,  wild  air,  that  in  those  regions 
is  an  elixir  of  life  to  the  stranger,  making  him  young 
if  he  be  old,  and  if  he  be  young  making  him  feel  as  demi- 
gods felt  in  days  of  yore,  for  a  day  and  a  night  had  heen 
doing  its  work  upon  him.  Mere  life  and  motion 
became  to  liim  a  delight  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
before ;  and  when  the  moon  came  out  again  from  the 
other  side  of  the  cloud,  the  sight  of  her  beams  upon  surf 
and  sand  was  like  a  rare  wild  joy.  lie  was  glad  that  no 
one  interfered  with  his  pleasure,  that  he  was,  as  far  as 
he  knew,  alone  with  the  clouds  tliat  were  winging  tiieir 
way  among  moonbeams  in  the  violet  sky,  and  with  the 
waves  and  the  wind  with  which  he  held  companionship. 

lie  had  gone  a  mile,  it  might  be  more ;  he  heard  Ji 
step  behind  him.  In  vain  he  tried  to  convince  himself 
that  some  noise  natural  to  the  lonely  beach  deceived 
him.  In  the  high  tide  of  life  that  the  bracing  air  had 
brought  him,  his  senses  were  acute  and  true.  He  knew 
that  he  heard  this  step:  it  was  light,  like  a  child's;  it 


120 


THE   MERMAID. 


1' 

I 'I 


was  iiiniblc,  like  a  fawn's;  somctimos  it  was  very  near 
him.  lie  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  ;  but  do  what  he 
would,  his  mind  could  form  no  idea  of  what  creature  it 
might  be  who  thus  attended  him.  No  dark  or  fearful 
picture  crossed  his  mind  just  then ;  all  its  images  were 
good. 

The  fleet  of  white  clouds  that  were  sailing  in  the  sky 
rang  glad  changes  upon  the  beauty  of  the  moonlit  scene. 
Half  a  mile  or  more  Caius  walked  listening  to  the  foot- 
step ;  then  he  came  on  a  wrecked  boat  buried  in  tiie 
sand,  its  rim  laid  bare  by  the  tide.  Caius  struck  his 
foot  and  fell  upon  it. 

Striking  his  head,  stunned  for  a  moment,  then 
springing  up  again,  in  the  motion  of  falling  or  rising, 
he  knew  not  how,  he  saw  the  beach  behind  him — the 
waves  that  were  now  uearing  the  foot  of  the  dune,  the 
track  between  with  his  footsteps  upon  it,  and,  standing 
in  this  track,  alert  to  fly  if  need  be,  the  figure  of  a  girl. 
Her  dress  was  all  blown  by  the  wind,  her  curling  hair 
was  like  a  twining  garland  round  her  face,  and  her  face 
— ah  !  that  face  :  he  knew  it  as  well  as,  far  better  than 
he  knew  his  own ;  its  oval  curves,  its  dimpled  sweetness, 
its  laughing  eyes.  Just  for  such  brief  seconds  of  time 
as  were  necessary  for  perfect  recognition  he  saw  it ;  and 
then,  impelled  by  his  former  purpose — no  time  now  for 
a  new  volition — he  got  himself  up  and  walked  on,  with 
his  eyes  in  front  as  before. 

lie  thought  the  sea-maid  did  not  know  that  he  had 
seen  her,  for  her  footsteps  came  on  after  his  own.  Or, 
if  she  knew,  she  trusted  him  not  to  turn.  That  was 
well ;  she  might  trust  him.  Never  in  his  life  had  Caius 
felt  less  temptation  to  do  the  thing  that  he  held  to  be 
false.     He  knew  now,  for  he  had  seen  the  whole  line  of 


I 


THE  SEA-MAID. 


121 


the  bcacli,  tluit  tliorc  was  nothiiir,'  thero  for  liini  to  fear, 
nothing  that  could  give  any  adiMjiiate  reason  to  any  niau 
to  compel  him  to  walk  as  he  now  walked.  That  did  not 
matter;  he  had  given  his  word.  In  the  }thy.si(.*al  exalta- 
tion of  the  hour  the  best  of  hini  was  uppermost,  i.ike 
the  angels,  who  walk  in  heavenly  ])aths,  he  had  no  desire 
to  be  a  thing  that  could  stoop  from  nu)ral  rectitude. 
The  knowledge  that  his  old  love  of  the  sea  was  his  com- 
panion only  eidianced  the  strength  of  liis  vow,  oidy  nuide 
all  that  the  strength  of  vows  mean  more  dear  to  him; 
and  the  moonlit  shore  was  more  beautiful,  and  life,  each 
moment  that  he  was  then  living,  more  absolutely  good. 
So  they  went  on,  and  he  diil  not  try  to  think  where 
the  sea-maid  had  come  from,  or  whether  the  gray  Hap- 
ping dress  and  the  girlish  step  were  but  the  phantom 
guise  that  she  could  don  for  the  hour,  or  whether,  if  he 
should  turn  and  pursue  her,  she  would  drop  from  her 
upright  height  into  the  scaly  folds  that  he  had  once 
seen,  and  plunge  into  the  waves,  or  whether  that  had 
been  the  masquerade,  and  she  a  true  woman  of  the  land. 
He  did  not  know  or  care.  Come  what  come  might,  his 
spirit  walked  the  beach  that  night  with  the  beautiful 
spirit  that  the  face  of  the  sea-maid  interpreted  to  him. 


I 


^i-' 


I 


li  ' 


ciiaptp:r  VII. 


THE   GUAVE   LADY. 


The  hills  of  Cloud  Ishiiul  were  a  fair  sight  to  see  in 
the  moonlight.  When  the  traveller  came  close  to  them, 
the  beach  ended  obviously  in  a  sandy  road  which  led  up 
on  the  island.  There  was  a  small  white  wooden  house 
near  the  beach  ;  there  was  candlelight  within,  but  Caius 
took  no  notice  of  it.  The  next  building  was  a  light- 
house, which  stood  three  hundred  yards  farther  on. 
The  light  looking  seaward  was  not  visible.  He  jjassed 
the  distance  swiftly,  and  no  sooner  were  his  feet  level 
with  the  wall  of  the  square  wooden  tower,  than  he 
turned  about  on  the  soft  sandy  road  and  faced  the  wind 
that  had  been  racing  with  him,  and  looked.  The  scene 
was  all  as  he  might  have  expected  to  see  it ;  but  there 
was  no  living  creature  in  sight.  He  stood  in  the  gale, 
bare-headed,  looking,  looking ;  he  had  no  desire  to  en- 
ter the  house.  The  sea-maid  was  not  in  sight,  truly ; 
but  as  long  as  he  stood  alone  in  the  moonlight  scene,  he 
felt  that  her  presence  was  with  him.  Then  he  remem- 
bered the  dying  man  of  whom  he  had  been  told,  who 
lay  in  such  need  of  his  ministrations.  The  thought 
came  with  no  binding  sense  of  duty  such  as  he  had  felt 
concerning  the  keeping  of  his  vow.  He  would  have 
scorned  to  do  a  dishonourable  thing  in  the  face  of  the 

122 


1 1  * 


THE  (J RAVE    LADY. 


123 


ere 
ale, 
en- 

ly; 

he 
m- 
ho 
;ht 
'elt 
lave 
the 


upliftinjT  chiirrn  f)f  the  niituro  around  liim,  and,  more 
(.'Specially,  in  the  pre.sciK^o  of  his  love;  hut  what  had 
nature  and  this,  her  hcautiful  ehild,  to  do  with  the 
tendin^ix  of  disease  and  death  ?  Better  let  the  man  die  ; 
hetter  remain  himself  iti  the  wholesome  outside.  lie 
felt  that  he  would  put  himself  at  varianee  with  the  com- 
panions of  the  last  glorious  hour  if  he  attende(l  to  the 
dictates  of  this  dolorous  (hity.  ^'et,  hecause  of  a  dull 
liahit  of  duty  lie  had,  he  turned  in  a  minute,  and  went 
into  tlie  house  where  he  liad  heen  told  he  would  receive 
p^uithince  for  the  rest  of  his  journey. 

lie  had  no  sooner  knocked  at  the  suhstantial  door 
on  the  irround-lloor  of  the  lightliouse  than  it  was  opened 
by  a  sallow-facod,  kindly-looking  old  woman.  She  ad- 
mitted him,  as  if  he  were  an  expected  comer,  into  a 
large  square  room,  in  which  a  lamp  .and  a  tire  were 
burning.  The  room  was  exquisitely  nciit  and  clean,  as 
if  tlie  inspector  of  lighthouses  might  be  looked  for  at 
any  monu'iit.  The  woimm,  who  was  Freiudi,  spoke  a 
little  English,  and  her  French  was  of  a  sort  which  Caius 
could  understand  and  answer.  Slie  placed  a  chair  for 
him  by  the  heated  stove,  asked  where  Mr.  O'Shea  and 
the  cart  had  tarried,  listened  with  great  interest  to  a 
brief  account  of  the  accident  in  the  quicksand,  and, 
without  more  delay,  poured  out  hot  strong  cofTee,  which 
Caius  drank  out  of  a  large  bowl. 

"  Are  you  alone  in  tlie  house  ?  "  asked  Caius.  The 
impression  was  strong  upon  him  that  he  was  in  a  place 
where  the  people  bore  a  dangerous  or  mysterious  char- 
acter. A  woman  to  be  alone,  with  open  doors,  must 
either  be  in  league  with  those  from  whom  danger  might 
be  feared,  or  must  possess  mysterious  i)Owers  of  self- 
defence. 

9 


'?■*! 


Ilr: 


124 


THE  MMKMAII). 


•  The  woman  assured  liiin  tliiit  she  was  alone,  and 
j)erfe(ttly  safe.  She  jj^ave  a  kindly  and  earefnl  glatiee  at 
the  traveller's  hoots,  which  had  heen  wet,  and  hron  ^dit  him 
anotiier  pair.  It  was  evi<U'nt  she  knew  who  Caiiis  was, 
and  wherefore  ho  had  come  to  the  island,  and  that  her 
(jareful  entertainment  of  hitn  was  prearran^^cd.  It  was 
arranijed,  too,  that  she  should  ])ass  liim  on  to  the  piitient 
for  whom  his  skill  was  chiefly  desired  that  idght  a3 
quiekly  as  possible.  She  <;ave  him  oidy  reasonable  time 
to  be  warmed  and  fed,  telling  him  tlie  while  what  a  good 
man  this  was  who  had  lately  been  taken  so  very  ill,  what 
an  cxeellent  husband  and  father,  how  important  his  life 
was  to  the  welfare  of  the  eommunity. 

"  For,"  said  she,  "  he  is  truly  ratlier  rich  and  very 
intelligent;  so  nnieh  so  that  some  Avould  even  say  that 
he  was  the  frieiul  of  Madame  Le  Maitre."  Her  voice 
had  a  crescendo  of  vehemence  up  to  this  last  name. 

C\uus  had  his  marching  orders  once  more.  His 
hostess  went  out  with  him  to  the  moonlit  road  to  })oint 
his  wav.  She  showed  him  where  the  road  divided,  and 
which  j)ath  to  take,  and  said  that  he  must  then  pass 
three  houses  and  enter  the  fourth.  She  begged  him, 
with  courteous  authority,  to  hasten. 

The  houses  were  a  good  way  apart.  After  half  an 
hour's  fast  walking,  Caius  came  to  the  ajipointed  place. 
The  house  was  large,  of  light-coloured  wood,  shingled 
all  over  roof  and  s'des,  and  the  light  and  shades  in  the 
lapping  of  the  shingles  gave  the  soft  effect  almost  as  of 
feathers  in  the  lesser  light  of  night.  It  stood  in  a  large 
compound  of  undulating  grassy  ground. 

The  whole  lower  floor  of  this  house  was  one  room. 
In  the  middle  of  it,  on  a  small  pallet  bedstead,  lay  the 
sick  man.     Beside  him  was  a  woman  dressed  in  gray 


TIIK  UliAVK    LADV. 


125 


hoinospuii,  .'ip})aroiitly  his  wife,  and  anotlier  woiiuui 
who  wore  a  dress  not  unlike  that  of  a  nun,  a  white  cap 
being  bandaged  ch)sely  round  lier  i'oreliead,  cheeks  and 
cliin.  The  nun-like  (h'ess  gave  her  great  dignity.  She 
8 'eiued  to  Caius  a  strong-featured  woman  of  hirge  stat- 
ure, apparently  in  early  niitldle  age.  He  was  a  good 
d.-al  sur])rised  when  he  found  that  this  was  Madanu>  Lo 
iMaitre.  lie  had  had  no  definite  notion  of  her,  but  this 
certainly  did  not  fullil  his  idea. 

It  was  hut  the  work  of  a  short  time  to  do  all  that 
could  be  ilone  that  night  for  the  sick  man,  to  lejive  the 
remedies  that  were  to  be  used.  It  was  now  midnight. 
The  liot  stove  in  the  room,  causing  reaction  from  the 
strou'dv-stimuhitinf?  air,  made  liim  aijain  feel  heav 
with  sleep.  The  nun-like  lady,  who  had  as  yet  said 
alnu)st  nothing  to  him,  now  touched  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  beckoned  him  to  follow  her.  She  led  him  out  into 
the  night  again,  round  the  house  and  into  a  barn,  in 
either  side  of  which  were  tremendous  bins  of  hay. 

"  Your  house,"  she  said,  "  is  a  long  way  from  here, 
and  you  are  very  tired.  In  the  house  here  there  is  the 
infection."  Here  she  pointed  him  to  the  hay,  and,  giv- 
ing him  a  warm  blanket,  bade  him  good-night. 

Caius  shut  the  door,  aiul  found  that  the  i)lace  was  lit 
by  dusky  rays  of  moonlight  that  came  through  chinks 
in  its  walls.  He  climbed  the  ladder  that  reached  to  the 
top  of  the  hay,  and  rolled  himself  and  his  blaulvec  warm- 
ly in  it.  The  barn  was  not  cold.  The  airiness  of  the 
walls  was  a  relief  to  him  after  the  infected  room.  Never 
had  couch  felt  more  luxurious. 


)om. 
the 
[ray 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


HOW   THEY   LIVED   OX   THE    CLOUD. 


PI 


'I 


Uli-' 


Wr 


I 


When  the  chinks  of  moonlight  had  been  rephiced 
by  brigliter  chinks  of  sunlight,  the  new  doctor  who  had 
come  so  gallantly  to  the  aid  of  the  sufferers  on  Cloud 
Inland  opened  his  eyes  upon  his  first  day  there. 

He  heard  some  slight  sounds,  and  looked  over  the 
edge  of  his  bed  to  see  a  little  table  set  forth  in  the 
broad  passage  between  the  two  stores  of  hay.  A  slip  of 
a  girl,  of  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  was  jirranging 
dishes  upon  it.  When  Caius  scrambled  down,  she  in- 
formed him,  with  childish  timidity  of  mien,  that  Mad- 
ame Le  ^laitre  had  said  that  he  was  to  have  his  break- 
fast there  before  he  went  in  to  see  "  father."  The  child 
spoke  French,  but  Caius  spoke  English  because  it  re- 
lieved his  mind  to  do  so. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  he  said,  "  Madame  Le  Maitre 
keeps  everything  running  in  very  good  order,  and  takes 
prodigious  care  of  us  all." 

"  Oh,  oui,  monsieur,"  replied  the  child  sagely,  judg- 
ing from  his  look  of  amusement  and  the  name  he  had 
repeated  that  this  was  the  i)roper  answer. 

The  breakfast,  which  was  already  there,  consisted  of 
fish,  delicately  baked,  and  coffee.  The  young  doctor 
felt  exceedingly  odd,  sitting  in  the  cart-track  of  a  barn 

12G 


HOW  THEY   LIVED  ON   THE  CLOUD. 


127 


re- 


of 

;tor 
kirn 


and  devouring  these  viands  from  a  breakfast-table  that 
was  toh.M'ablv  well  set  out  with  tlie  usual  number  of 
dishes  and  condiments.  The  big  double  door  was  closed 
to  keep  out  the  cold  wind,  but  plenty  of  air  and  numer- 
ous sunbeams  managed  to  come  in.  The  sunbeams  were 
g(Jden  bars  of  dust,  crossing  and  interlacing  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  wiiulowless  walls.  The  slip  of  a  girl  in  her 
short  frock  remained,  perhaps  from  curiosity,  perhaps 
because  she  had  been  bidden  to  do  so,  but  she  made  her- 
self as  little  obvious  as  })ossil)le,  standing  up  against  one 
corner  near  the  door  and  shyly  twisting  some  bits  of  hay 
in  her  hands.  Caius,  wdio  was  enjoying  himself,  discov- 
ered a  new  source  of  amusement  in  pretending  to  forget 
her  presence  and  then  looking  at  her  quickly,  for  he  al- 
ways found  the  glance  of  her  big  gray  eyes  was  being 
withdrawn  from  his  own  face,  and  child-like  confusion 
ensued. 

When  he  had  eaten  enough,  he  set  to  his  proper 
work  with  haste  and  diligence.  He  made  the  girl  tell 
him  how  many  children  there  w^re,  and  find  them  all 
for  him,  so  that  in  a  trice  he  had  them  standing  in  a 
row  in  the  sunlight  outside  the  barn,  with  their  little 
tongues  all  out,  that  the  state  of  their  health  might  be 
properly  inspected.  Then  lie  went  in  to  his  patient  of 
the  night  before. 

The  disease  was  diphtheria.  It  was  a  severe  case ; 
but  the  man  had  been  healthy,  and  Caius  approved  the 
arrangements  that  Madame  Tvg  Maitre  had  made  to  give 
him  plenty  of  air  and  nourishment. 

The  wife  was  alone  with  her  husband  this  morning, 
and  when  Caius  had  done  all  that  was  necessary,  and 
given  her  directions  for  the  proper  protection  of  herself 
and  the  children,  she  told  him  that  her  eldest  girl  wo. Id 


128 


THE  MERMAID. 


Mi 


h 


go  with  him  to  the  lioiise  of  Madame  Le  Maitre.  That 
lady,  said  she  simply,  would  tell  him  where  he  was  to  go 
next,  and  all  he  was  to  do  upon  the  island. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  said  Cains  again  to  himself,  "  it 
seems  I  am  to  be  taken  care  of  and  instructed,  truly." 

lie  had  a  sense  of  being  patronized ;  but  his  spirits 
were  high — nothing  depressed  him  ;  and,  remembering 
the  alarming  incident  of  the  night  before,  he  felt  that 
the  lady's  protection  might  not  be  unnecessary. 

When  he  got  to  the  front  of  the  house,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  morning  light,  he  saw  that  the  establish- 
ment was  of  ample  size,  but  kept  with  no  care  for  a 
tasteful  appearance.  There  was  no  path  of  any  sort 
leading  from  the  gate  in  the  light  paling  to  the  door  ^ 
all  was  a  thick  carpet  of  grass,  covering  the  unlevelled 
ground.  The  grass  was  waving  madly  in  the  wind, 
which  coursed  freely  over  undulating  fields  that  here 
displayed  no  shrubs  or  trees  of  any  sort.  Caius  won- 
dered if  the  wind  alwavs  blew  on  these  islands ;  it  was 
blowing  now  with  the  same  zest  as  the  day  before  ;  the 
sun  poured  down  with  brilliancy  upon  everything,  and 
the  sea,  seen  in  glimpses,  was  blue  and  tempestuous. 
Truly,  it  seemed  a  land  which  the  sun  and  the  moon  and 
the  wind  had  elected  to  bless  with  lavish  self-giving. 

When  Cains  opened  the  gate  of  the  whitewashed 
paling,  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his  guide  cam«'  round 
from  the  back  of  the  house  after  him,  and  on  her  track 
came  a  sudden  rush  of  all  the  other  children,  who,  with 
curls  and  garments  flying  in  the  wind  and  delightful 
bursts  of  sudden  laughter,  came  to  stand  in  a  row  again 
with  their  tongues  outstretched  at  Caius'  retreating 
form. 

The  girl  could  only  talk  French,  and  she  talked  very 


now  TIIEY  LIVED  ON  THE  CLOUD. 


129 


»"> 


'^^ 


little  of  that,  giving  liim  "yes"  or  "  no"  demurely,  as 
they  went  up  tlie  road  whicli  ran  in  hind  throngli  the 
island  hills,  keei)ing  about  midway  between  sea  and  sea. 
Caius  saw  that  tlie  houses  and  small  farms  on  either  side 
resembled  those  which  he  had  seen  on  the  other  island. 
Small  and  rough  many  of  them  were ;  but  their  white- 
washed walls,  the  strong  sunshine,  and  the  large  space 
of  grass  or  pine  shrubs  that  was  about  each,  gave  them 
an  appearance  of  cleanliness.  There  was  no  sign  of  the 
want  or  squalor  that  he  had  expected  ;  indeed,  so  pros- 
perous did  many  of  the  houses  look,  that  he  himself 
began  to  have  an  injured  feeling,  thinking  that  he  had 
been  brought  to  befriend  people  who  might  very  well 
have  befriended  themselves. 

It  was  when  they  came  out  at  a  dip  in  the  hills  near 
the  outer  sea  again  that  the  girl  stopped,  and  pointing 
Caius  to  a  house  within  sight,  went  back.  This  house 
in  the  main  resembled  the  other  larger  houses  of  the 
island ;  but  pine  and  birch  trees  were  beginning  to  grow 
high  about  it,  and  on  eniering  its  enclosure  Caius  trod 
upon  a  gravel  path,  and  noticed  banks  of  earth  that  in 
the  summer  time  had  held  flowers.  In  front  of  the 
white  veranda  two  powerful  mastiffs  were  lying  in  the 
sun.  These  lions  were  not  chained  ;  they  were  looking 
for  him  before  ho  appeared,  but  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  rise  at  the  sight  of  him;  only  a  low  and  ominous 
rumble,  as  of  thunder  beneath  the  earth,  greeted  his  jip- 
proacli,  and  gave  Caius  the  strong  impression  that,  if 
need  was,  they  would  arise  to  some  purpose. 

A  young  girl  opened  the  door.  She  was  fresh  and 
pretty-looking,  but  of  plebeian  figure  and  countenance. 
Her  dress  was  again  gray  homespun,  hanging  full  and 
short  about  her  ankles.     Iler  manner  was  different  from 


130 


TIJE  MERMAID. 


that  of  those  people  lie  hud  been  lately  meeting,  for  it 
had  that  gentle  reserve  and  formality  that  bespeaks 
training.  She  ushered  him  into  a  good-sized  room, 
where  three  other  girls  like  herself  were  engaged  in  sew- 
ing. Sitting  at  a  table  with  a  book,  from  which  she  had 
apparently  been  reading  to  them,  was  the  woman  in  the 
nun-like  dress  whom  he  had  met  before.  The  walls  of 
the  room  were  of  un})ainted  pinewood,  planed  to  a  satin 
finish,  and  adorned  with  festoons  of  gray  moss  such  as 
hangs  from  forest  boughs.  This  was  tied  with  knots  of 
red  bittersweet  berries ;  the  feathers  of  sea-birds  were 
also  displayv(  the  walls,  and  chains  of  their  delicate- 
coloured  eggs  ere  hanging  there.  Caius  had  not 
stepped  across  the  threshold  before  he  began  to  suspect 
that  he  had  passed  from  the  region  of  the  real  into  the 
ideal. 

"  She  is  a  romantic-minded  woman,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.    "  I  wonder  if  she  has  much  sense,  after  all  ?  " 

Then  the  woman  whom  he  was  thus  inwardly  criti- 
cising rose  and  came  across  the  room  to  meet  him. 
Her  perfect  gravity,  her  dignity  of  bearing,  and  her 
gracious  greeting,  impressed  him  in  spite  of  himself. 
Pictures  that  one  finds  in  history  and  fiction  of  lady 
abbesses  rose  before  his  mind  ;  it  was  thus  that  he  clas- 
sified her.  His  opinion  as  to  the  conscious  romance  of 
her  life  altered,  for  the  woman  before  him  was  very  real, 
and  he  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  had  seen  and  suf- 
fered much.  Her  eyes  w^ere  full  of  suffering  and  of 
solicitude  ;  but  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  the  suffering 
and  solicitude  were  in  any  way  connected  with  a  per- 
sonal need,  for  there  was  also  peace  upon  her  face. 

The  room  did  not  contain  much  furniture.  When 
Caius  sat  down,  and  the  lady  had  resumed  her  seat,  he 


now  TIIEY  LIVED  ON  THE  CLOUD. 


131 


found,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  way  in  empty  rooms,  that  the 
chairs  were  near  the  wall,  and  that  he,  sitting  facing 
her,  had  left  nearly  the  room's  widtli  between  them. 
The  sewing  maidens  looked  at  them  with  large  eyes,  and 
listened  to  everything  that  was  said  ;  and  although  they 
were  silent,  except  for  the  sonnd  of  their  stitching,  it 
was  so  evident  that  their  thonghts  must  form  a  running 
commentary  that  it  gave  Cains  an  odd  feeling  of  acting 
in  company  with  a  drannitic  chorus.  The  lady  in  front 
of  him  had  no  such  feeling ;  there  was  nothing  more 
evident  about  her  than  that  she  did  not  think  of  how 
she  appeared  or  how  she  was  observed. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  have  come."  She  spoke  with 
a  slight  French  accent,  whether  natural  or  acquired  ho 
could  not  tell.  Then  she  left  that  subject,  and  began 
at  once  to  tell  the  story  of  the  plague  upon  tiie  island — 
when  it  began,  what  efforts  she  and  a  few  others  had 
made  to  arrest  it,  the  carelessness  and  obstinacy  with 
which  the  greater  part  of  the  people  had  fostered  it,  its 
progress.  This  was  the  substance  of  what  she  said  ;  but 
she  did  not  speak  of  the  best  efforts  as  being  her  own, 
nor  did  she  call  the  people  stupid  and  obstinate.  She 
only  said : 

"  They  would  not  have  tlieir  houses  properly  cleaned 
out;  they  would  not  wash  or  burn  garments  that  were 
infected ;  they  would  not  use  disinfectants,  even  when 
we  could  procure  them ;  they  will  not  yet.  You  may 
say  that  in  this  wind-swept  country  there  can  be  noth- 
ing in  nature  to  foster  such  a  disease,  nothing  in  the 
way  the  houses  are  built ;  but  the  disease  came  here  on 
a  ship,  and  it  is  in  the  houses  of  the  people  that  it  lingers. 
They  will  not  isolate  the  sick  ;  they  Avill  not- 


5? 


t  !ii 


4  m 


i 


She  stopped  as  if  at  a  loss  for  a  word.     She  liad 


132 


THE   MERMAID. 


I 


been  speaking  in  a  voice  whose  music  was  the  strain  of 
compassion. 

"  In  fact,"  said  Cains,  with  some  impatience,  "  they 
are  a  set  ^  fools,  and  worse,  for  they  won't  take  a  telling. 
Your  duty  is  surely  done.  They  do  not  deserve  that 
you  should  risk  your  life  nursing  them  ;  they  simply 
deserve  to  be  left  to  suffer." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  minute,  as  if  earnestly  trying 
to  master  a  view  of  the  case  new  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  speaking  slowly.  lie  saw  that  her  hands, 
"which  were  clasped  in  her  lap,  jiressed  themselves  more 
closely  together — "  yes,  that  is  what  they  deserve ;  but, 
you  see,  they  are  very  ignorant.  They  do  not  see  the 
importjince  of  these  precautions ;  they  have  not  believed 
me  ;  they  will  not  believe  you.  They  think  quite  hon- 
estly and  truly  that  they  will  get  on  well  enough  in  doing 
their  own  way." 

"  Pig-headed  !"  commented  Caius.  Then,  perceiving 
that  he  had  not  quite  carried  her  judgment  along  with 
his:  "You  yourself,  madam,  have  admitted  that  they 
do  not  deserve  that  either  you  or  I  should  sacrifice  our 
lives  to  them." 

"Ah,  no,"  she  replied,  trouble  of  thought  again  in 
her  eyes ;  "  they  do  not  deserve  that.  But  what  do  we 
deserve — you  and  I  ?  " 

There  was  no  studied  effect  in  the  question.  She 
was  like  one  trying  to  think  more  clearly  by  expressing 
her  thought  aloud. 

"  Madam,"  replied  he,  the  smile  of  gallantry  upon  his 
lips,  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  you   deserve  the  richest 

blessinsfs  of  earth  and  heaven.     For  mvself "     lie 

shrugged  his  shoulders,  just  about  to  say  conventionally, 
flippantly,  that  he  was  a  sad,  worthless  fellow,  but  in 


I 


I 


HOW  TREY  LIVED  OX  THE  CLOUD. 


133 


lis 


some  way  her  sincerity  made  liim  sincere,  and  lie 
fmislied :  "  1  do  not  know  tluit  I  have  <lono  anytliing 
to  forfeit  tlieni." 

lie  supposed,  as  soon  as  ho  had  said  tlie  words,  that 
she  wouhl  liave  a  theological  objection  to  this  view,  and 
oppose  it  by  rote  ;  but  there  was  nothing  of  disa])proval  in 
her  mein  ;  there  was  even  a  gleam  of  gre[iter  kindliness 
for  him  in  her  eye,  and  she  said,  not  in  answer,  but  as 
making  a  remark  Ijy  the  way  : 

"  That  is  just  as  I  supposed  when  I  asked  you  to 
come.  You  are  like  the  young  ruler,  who  could  not 
liave  been  conceited  because  our  Lord  IV.t  greatly 
attracted  to  him." 

Before  this  Caius  had  liad  a  pleasing  consciousness, 
regarding  himself  as  an  interesting  stranger  talking  to 
a  handsome  and  interested  woman.  Xow  he  had  wit 
enough  to  perceive  that  her  interest  in  him  never  dipped 
to  the  level  of  ordinary  social  relationships.  Jle  felt 
a  sense  of  remoteness,  and  did  not  even  blush,  though 
knowing  certainly  that  satire,  although  it  was  not  in 
her  mind,  was  sneering  at  him  from  behind  the  circum- 
stance. 

The  lady  went  right  on,  almost  without  pause,  taking 
up  the  thread  of  her  argument :  "  But  wljen  the  angels 
whisper  to  us  that  the  best  blessings  of  earth  and  heaven 
are  humility  and  faith  and  the  sort  of  love  that  does 
not  seek  its  own,  do  we  get  up  at  once  and  spend  our 
time  learning  these  things?  or  do  we  just  go  on  as 
before,  and  think  our  own  way  good  enougli  ?  '  We  are 
fools  and  worse,  and  will  not  take  a  telling.'  "  A  smilo 
broke  u2)on  her  lip  now  for  the  first  time  as  she  looked 
at  him.     " '  Pig-headed  ! ' "  she  said. 

Caius  had  seen  that  smile  before.    It  passed  instantly, 


rf 


f'?B 


134 


THE  MERMAID. 


SI 

1.1 


and  she  sat  before  him  with  grave,  unrufTled  demeanour; 
but  all  Ills  thoughts  and  feelings  seemed  a-whirl.  He 
could  not  colleet  his  mind;  he  could  not  remember 
wluit  she  had  said  exactlv;  he  could  not  think  what  to 
answer ;  indeed,  he  could  not  think  at  all.  There  had 
been  a  likeness  to  his  phantastic  lady-love  of  the  sea ; 

but  it  left  him  with  all  his 


then  it  was  gone 


again ; 


thoughts  confounded.  At  length — because  he  felt  that 
ho  must  look  like  a  fool  indeed — he  spoke,  stammering 
the  first  thing  that  occurred  to  him  : 

"  The  patient  that  I  have  seen  did  not  appear  to  be 
in  a  house  that  was  ill-ventilated  or — or — that  is,  he  was 
isohited  from  the  rest  of  the  family." 

He  perceived  that  the  lady  had  not  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  what  it  was  that  had  really  confused  liim. 
He  knew  that  in  her  eyes,  in  the  eyes  of  the  maidens,  it 
must  appear  that  her  home-thrust  had  gone  to  liis  heart, 
that  he  had  changed  the  subject  because  too  weak  to 
be  able  to  answer  her.  He  was  mortified  at  this,  but  he 
could  not  retrace  his  steps  in  the  conversation,  for  she 
had  alreadv  answered  him. 

The  household  he  had  already  visited,  she  said,  with 
a  few  others,  had  helped  her  by  following  sanitary  rules ; 
and  then  she  went  on  talking  about  what  those  rules 
were,  what  could  and  could  not  be  done  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  families  affected. 

As  she  talked  on,  Caius  knew  that  the  thing  he  had 
thought  must  be  false  and  foolish.  This  woman  and 
that  other  maiden  were  not  the  same  in  thought,  or 
character,  or  deed,  or  aspect.  Furthermore,  what  expe- 
rience he  had  made  him  feel  certain  that  the  woman 
who  had  known  him  in  that  relationship  could  not  be 
so  indifferent  to  his  recognition,  so  indifferent  to  all 


now  TIIEY   LIVED  ON  THE  CLOUD. 


185 


that  was  in  liini  to  which  her  beauty  appealed,  as  this 
woman  was,  and  of  tiiis  woman's  indiU'erenco  ho  felt 
convinced. 

The  ])rovision  made  for  the  hoard  and  lodging  of  tlio 
new  doctor  was  ex})lained  to  him.  It  was  not  consid- 
ered safe  for  him  to  live  with  any  of  tlie  families  of  the 
island.  A  very  small  wooden  building,  originally  built 
as  a  stable,  but  uever  used,  had  been  hastily  remodelled 
into  a  house  for  him.  It  was  some  way  further  down 
the  winding  road,  within  sight  of  the  house  of  Madame 
Le  Maitre. 

Cains  was  taken  to  this  new  abode,  and  found  that  it 
contained  two  rooms,  furnished  with  the  necessities  and 
many  of  the  comforts  of  life.  The  stove  was  good ; 
abundance  of  fuel  was  stacked  near  the  house ;  simple 
cooking  utensils  hung  in  the  outer  room ;  adjoining  it, 
or  rather,  in  a  bit  of  the  same  building  set  apart,  was  a 
small  stable,  in  which  a  very  good  horse  was  standing. 
The  horse  was  for  his  use.  If  he  could  be  his  own  bed- 
maker,  cook,  and  groom,  it  wjis  evident  that  lie  would 
lack  for  nothing.  A  man  whom  Madame  Le  ^laitre 
sent  showed  Caius  his  quarters,  and  delivered  to  him  the 
key ;  he  also  said  that  Madame  Le  Maitre  would  be  ready 
in  an  hour  to  ride  over  the  island  with  him  and  intro- 
duce him  to  all  the  houses  in  which  there  was  illness. 

Caius  was  left  for  the  hour  to  look  over  his  estab- 
lishment and  make  friends  with  his  horse.  It  was  all 
very  surprising. 


I  :i:' 


II 


]    iH 


i^i 


l'-  f 


CHAPTER  IX. 


TTTE   SICK    AND   THE    DEAD. 


TiTE  bit  of  road  that  lay  between  Madame  Lc  Maitre's 
house  and  the  house  allotted  to  Caius  led,  winding  down 
a  hill,  through  a  stunted  fir-wood.  The  small  firs  held 
out  gnarled  and  knotty  branches  towards  the  road  ;  their 
needles  were  a  dark  rich  green. 

Down  this  road  Caius  saw  the  lady  come  riding. 
Iler  horp.e  was  a  beautiful  beast,  hardly  more  than  a  colt, 
of  iigtit  make  and  chestnut  colour.  She  herself  was  not 
becomingly  attired;  she  wore  just  the  same  loose  black 
dress  that  she  had  worn  in  the  house,  and  over  the  wliite 
cap  a  black  hood  ami  cloak  were  muffled.  Xo  doubt  in 
ancient  times,  before  carriages  were  in  'ise,  ladies  rode  in 
such  feminine  wrappings ;  but  the  taste  of  C*aius  had 
been  formed  upon  other  models.  lie  mounted  his  own 
horse  and  joined  her  on  the  road  without  remark.  lie 
had  found  no  saddle,  only  a  blanket  with  girths,  and 
upon  tliis  he  supposed  he  looked  quite  as  awkward  as  she 
did.     The  lady  led,  and  they  rode  on  across  the  island. 

Caius  knew  that  now  it  w'as  the  right  time  to  tell 
^ladame  Le  IVIaitre  what  had  occurred  the  night  before, 
and  the  ill-usage  he  had  suffered.  As  she  appeared  to 
be  the  most  important  person  on  the  island,  it  was  right 
that  she  should  know  of  the  mysterious  band  of  bandits 

186 


THE  SICK  AND  THE   DEAD. 


137 


I  <i 


-) 


0 


it 
:s 


upon  the  bcacli — if,  indeed,  she  did  not  jdready  know  ; 
periuips  it  was  by  power  of  tliese  she  reigned,  lie  found 
himself  able  to  coniecture  almost  anvthiiii^. 

AVhon  ho  had  quickened  his  horse  and  come  beside 
her  for  the  purpose  of  relating  his  adventure,  she  began 
to  speak  to  him  at  once.  She  told  him  what  nnnd)er  of 
cases  of  illness  were  then  on  her  list — six  in  all.  She  told 
hiin  the  number  who  liad  already  died  ;  and  then  they 
came  past  the  cemetery  upon  the  hillside,  and  she  pointed 
out  the  new-mad(^  graves.  It  a[)])eared  that,  although 
at  that  time  there  was  an  abatenu-nt  in  the  number  of 
cases,  diphtheria  1..  1  already  made  sad  ravages  among 
the  little  population  ;  and  as  the  winter  would  cause  the 
people  to  shut  up  their  houses  more  and  more  closely,  it 
was  certain  to  increase  rather  than  to  diminish.  Then 
Madame  Le  Maitre  told  him  of  one  case,  and  of  another, 
in  which  the  family  bereavement  seeined  particularly 
sad.  The  stories  she  told  had  great  detail,  but  they  were 
not  tedious.  Caius  listened,  and  forgot  that  her  voice 
was  musical  or  that  her  hood  and  cloak  were  ugly ;  he 
only  thought  of  the  actors  in  the  short  sad  idylls  of  the 
island  that  she  put  before  him. 

When  they  entered  the  first  house,  he  discovered  that 
she  herself  had  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  each  of  tlie 
sick  every  day  as  nurse,  and,  as  far  as  her  simple  skill 
could  go,  as  doctor  too.  In  this  house  it  was  a  little  child 
that  lay  ill,  and  as  soon  as  Caius  saw  it  he  ceased  to  hope 
for  its  recovery.  They  used  niO  new  remedies  that  he 
had  brought  with  him,  and  when  he  looked  round  for 
someone  who  could  continue  to  apjily  them,  he  found 
that  the  mother  was  alreadv  dead,  and  the  father  took  no 
charge  of  the  child — he  was  not  there.  A  half-grown 
boy  of  about  fifteen  was  its  only  nurse,  and  he  was  not 


m 


-  I 


138 


Till-:   MKKMAII). 


deft  or  wi.sc,  althoiigli  lovo,  or  a  riulo  .sense  of  conscience, 
lijuJ  kept  him  from  deserting;  liis  })ost. 

"  WluMi  we  liuve  visited  the  others,  I  will  come  buck 
and  remain,"  said  .Madame  Le  Mail  re. 

So  they  rode  on  down  tlie  hill  and  alon^^  the  shin<j^led 
beach  that  edged  a  higoon.  Here  the  sea  lapped  softly 
and  they  were  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Here,  too,  they 
saw  the  other  islands  lying  in  the  crescent  they  composed, 
and  they  saw  the  waves  of  the  bay  break  on  the  sand- 
bank that  was  the  other  arm  of  the  lagoon.  Still  Cains 
did  not  tell  abont  his  adventure  of  the  ni<dit  before.  'J'ho 
lady  looked  preoccupied,  as  if  she  was  thiidving  about  the 
Angel  of  Death  that  was  lioverijig  over  the  cotl;age  they 
had  left. 

The  next  house  was  a  large  one,  and  here  two  chil- 
dren were  ill.  They  were  well  cared  for,  for  two  of  the 
young  girls  whom  he  had  seen  in  Ma'  ne  Le  Maitre's 
house  were  there  for  the  time  to  nurs         ni. 

They  took  one  of  these  damsels  with  them  when  they 
went  on.  She  was  willing  to  walk,  but  Cains  set  her 
upon  his  horse  and  led  it ;  in  this  way  they  made  quicker 
progress.  Up  a  hill  they  went,  .and  over  fields,  and  iu  a 
small  house  upon  a  windy  slope  they  found  the  mother 
of  a  family  l}ing  very  ill.  Here,  after  Cains  had  said  all 
that  there  was  to  say,  and  Madame  Le  Maitre,  with  skil- 
ful hands,  had  done  all  that  she  could  do  in  a  short  time, 
they  left  the  young  girl. 

At  the  next  and  last  house  of  their  round,  where  the 
day  before  one  child  had  been  ill,  they  now  found  three 
tossing  and  crying  with  pain  and  fever.  "When  it  wa3 
time  for  them  to  go,  Cains  saw  his  companion  silently 
wring  her  hands  at  the  thought  of  leaving  them,  for  the 
mother,  worn  out  and  very  ignorant,  was  the  only  nurse. 


1 


TIIK  SICK   AND   TIIK   DEAD. 


i;)0 


science, 
[le  buck 

a  softly 

:oo,  they 
imposed, 
he  siiiul- 
ill  Cains 
»ve.  'rho 
ibout  tlio 
tage  they 

two  chil- 
,vo  of  the 
3  Maitre's 

'^vhen  tliey 
s  set  her 
lie  quicker 
I  and  in  a 
lie  mother 
(\  said  all 
^vith  skil- 
lort  time, 

Ivhere  the 

iind  three 

[en  it  was 

silently 

,  for  tlie 


It  did  not  seem  that  it  could  be  lielped.    Caius  went  out 
to  his  liorse,  and  Ma(hime  Le  >raitre  to  liers,  but  he  saw 
lier  stand  Ijcside  it  as  if  too  absent  in  mind  to  spriui,'  to 
its  back;  her  face  was  iookiui;  up  into  the  blue  aixne. 
"  You  are  <rreatlv  troui)K'd,"  said  Caius. 


(( 


ily 


nurse. 


Oh  yes,"  her  voice  was  low,  but  it  came  like  tlio 
sound  of  a  cry.  "  I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  All  these 
montlis  I  have  be(j*^a'd  aiul  entreated  the  ])eople  to  keep 
away  from  those  liouses  where  there  was  illness.  It  was 
their  oidy  liope.  And  now  that  they  begin  to  under- 
stand that,  I  cannot  bring  tlie  healthy  to  nurse  the  sick, 
even  if  they  were  willing  to  come.  They  will  take  no 
precautions  us  we  do.     It  is  not  safe  ;  I  have  tried  it." 

Slic  did  not  look  at  Caius,  slie  was  looking  at  the 
blue  that  hung  over  tlie  sea  which  lay  beneath  tliem, 
but  the  weariness  ol  a  long  long  elfort  was  in  her 
tone. 

"  Could  we  not  manage  to  bring  them  all  to  one 
house  tliat  would  serve  as  a  hospital  ?  " 

"  Now  that  you  have  come,  perhaps  we  can,"  she 

said,  "  but  at  present "    She  looked  ]iel])lessly  at  the 

door  of  the  house  they  liad  left. 

"At  present  I  will  nurse  tliese  children,"  Caius  said. 
"I  do  not  need  to  see  the  otliers  again  until  evening." 

He  tied  his  liorse  in  a  shed,  and  nursed  the  children 
until  the  moon  was  bright.  Then,  when  he  liad  left 
them  as  well  as  might  be  for  the  night,  he  set  cut  to 
return  on  his  former  track  by  memory.  The  island  was 
very  peaceful ;  on  field  or  hill  or  shore  he  met  no  one, 
except  here  and  there  a  plodding  fisherman,  who  gave 
him  "Good-evening"  without  apparently  knowing  or 
caring  who  he  was.  The  horse  they  knew,  no  doubt, 
that  was  enough. 
10 


S 


140 


THE  MERMAID. 


1 


'"'',. 


lie  made  the  same  round  as  before,  beginning  at  the 
otlier  end.  At  the  house  where  tlie  woman  was  ill  the 
girl  who  was  nursing  her  remained.  At  the  next  house 
tlie  young  girl,  who  was  dressed  for  the  rojid,  ingenu- 
ously claimed  his  protection  for  her  homeward  way. 

"  1  will  go  with  you,  monsieur,  it  will  be  more  safe 


for  me." 


So  he  put  her  on  his  horse,  but  they  did  not  talk  to 
one  another. 

At  the  third  house  they  found  Madame  Le  ]\raitre 
weeping  passionately  over  a  dead  baby,  aiul  the  lout  of 
a  boy  weeping  with  her.  It  surprised  Caius  to  feel  sud- 
denly that  he  could  almost  have  wept,  too,  and  yet  he 
believed  that  the  child  was  better  dead. 

Someone  had  been  out  into  the  winter  fields  and 
gathered  the  small  white  everlasting  flowers  that  were 
still  waving  there,  and  twined  tiiem  in  the  curls  of  the 
baby's  hair,  and  strewed  them  upon  the  meagre  gray 
sheet  that  covered  it. 

When  they  rode  down  to  the  village  they  were  all 
quite  silent.  Caius  felt  as  if  he  had  lived  a  long  time 
ui)on  this  island.  His  brain  was  full  of  plans  for  a  hos- 
pital and  for  disinfecting  the  furniture  of  the  houses. 

lie  visited  the  good  man  in  whose  barn  he  had  slept 
the  preceding  night,  lie  went  to  his  little  house  and 
fed  himself  and  his  horse.  He  discovered  his  portman- 
teaus that  O'Shea  had  promised  to  deliver,  and  found 
that  their  contents  had  not  been  tampered  with  ;  but 
even  this  did  not  bring  his  mind  back  with  great  inter- 
est to  the  events  of  the  former  night,  lie  was  think 
ing  of  other  things,  and  yet  he  hardly  knew  of  what  ho 
was  thinking. 


the 
the 
:)use 

3I1U- 


% 


safe 

ilk  to 

Itdtve 
out  of 
}\  siul- 
vet  he 

lis  and 
at  were 
of  the 
re  gray 

^vore  all 
^(v  time 
l)r  a  hos- 
ousos. 
iad  slept 
use  aiul 
bortman- 
d  found 
i'ith ;  but 
nit  inter- 
as  think 
what  h3 


CHAPTER  X. 


A    LIGHT-GIVIXG    WORD. 


The  next  morning,  before  Cuius  went  out,  he  wrote 
a  short  statement  of  all  that  had  occurred  beside  the 
quicksand.  The  motive  that  prompted  him  to  do  this 
was  the  feeling  that  it  would  he  difficult  for  him  to 
make  the  statemeut  to  Madame  Le  Maitre  verhally. 
He  began  to  realize  that  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to 
choose  the  topics  of  conversation  when  they  were  to- 
gether. 

She  did  not  ride  with  him  next  day,  as  now  he  knew 
the  road,  but  in  the  course  of  the  morning  he  saw  her  at 
the  house  where  the  three  children  were  ill,  and  she  cawie 
out  into  the  keen  air  with  him  to  ask  some  questions, 
and  no  doubt  for  the  necessary  refreshment. of  leaving 
the  close  house,  for  she  walked  a  little  way  on  the  dry, 
frozen  grass. 

Heavy  as  was  the  material  of  her  cloak  and  hood,  the 
strong  wind  toyed  witli  its  out*,  r  parts  as  with  muslin, 
but  it  could  not  lift  the  closely- tied  folds  that  surrounded 
her  face  and  heavily  draped  her  figure.  Caius  stood 
with  her  on  the  frozen  slope.  Beneath  them  they  could 
see  the  whole  stretch  of  the  shining  sand-dune  that  led 
to  the  next  island,  the  calm  lagoon  and  the  rough  water 
in  the  bay  beyond.     It  did  not  seem  a  likely  place  for 

141 


5:H 


^flTf"" 


i        I 


142 


THE  MERMAID. 


outlaws  to  hide  in ;  the  sun  poured  down  on  every  hill 
and  hollow  of  the  sand. 

Caius  explained  then  that  his  portmanteaus,  with  the 
stores,  had  arrived  safely ;  but  that  he  had  reason  to 
think  that  the  man  O'Shea  was  not  trusty,  that,  either 
out  of  malice  or  fear  of  the  companions  among  whom 
he  found  himself,  he  had  tlireatened  his.  Dr.  Simpson's, 
life  in  the  most  unwarrantable  manner.  lie  then  pre- 
sented the  statement  which  he  had  drawn  up,  and  com- 
mended it  to  her  attention. 

Madame  Le  Maitre  had  listened  to  his  words  with- 
out obvious  interest ;  in  fact,  he  doubted  if  she  had  got 
her  mind  off  the  sick  children  before  she  opened  the 
paper.  lie  would  have  liked  to  go  away  now,  leaving 
the  paper  with  her,  but  she  did  not  give  him  that  op- 
portunity. 

"  Ah !   this   is "     Then,   more   understandingly, 

"  This  is  an  account  you  have  written  of  your  journey 
hither  ?  " 

Caius  intimated  that  it  was  merely  a  complaint 
against  O'Sliea.  Yet  he  felt  sure,  while  she  was  read- 
ing it,  that,  if  she  had  any  liveliness  of  fancy,  she  must 
be  interested  in  its  contents,  and  if  she  had  proper  ap- 
preciation, she  must  know  that  he  had  expressed  him- 
self well.  When  she  had  finished,  however,  instead  of 
coveting  the  possession  of  the  document,  she  gently 
gave  it  back  to  him. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  sincerely,  "  that  you  were 
put  to  inconvenience.  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  come, 
that  I  had  hoped  to  make  your  journey  as  comfortable 
as  possible  ;  but  the  sands  are  very  treacherous,  not 
because  the  quicksands  are  large  or  deep,  but  because 
they  shift  in  stormy  weather,  sometimes  appearing  in 


'i 

I 
.4 

I 


hill 


,s  with- 
had  got 
ned  the 
,  leaving 
that  op- 

andingly, 


journey 


complaint 

was  read- 
she  must 
,roper  ap- 
ssed  him- 
lustead  of 

Ishe   gently 

you  were 

)U  to  come, 

-omiortable 

Ihcrous,  not 

but  because 

(ppeariug  in 


A  LIGHT-GTVING  WORD. 


US 


one  place,  and  sometimes  in  another.  It  has  been  ex- 
plained"— she  was  looking  at  him  now,  quite  interested 
in  what  she  was  saving—"  by  men  who  have  visited  these 
islands,  that  this  is  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  beds  of 
gypsum  that  lie  under  tlie  sand,  for  under  some  con- 
ditions the  gypsum  will  dissolve." 

The  ex})lanation  concerning  the  gypsum  was  cer- 
tainly interesting,  but  the  nature  of  the  quicksand  was 
not  the  point  which  Cains  had  brought  forward. 

"  It  is  this  fact,  that  one  cannot  tell  where  the  sand 
will  be  soft,  that  makes  it  necessary  to  have  a  guide  in 
travelling  over  the  beach.  The  people  here  become 
accustomed  to  the  appearance  of  the  soft  ])laces,  but 
it  seems  that  O'Shea  must  have  been  deceived  by  the 
moonlight." 

"  I  do  not  blame  him  for  the  accident,"  said  Cains, 
"  but  for  what  happened  afterwards." 

Her  slight  French  accent  gave  to  each  of  her  words 
a  quaint,  distinct  form  of  its  own.  "  O'Sliea  is — he  is 
what  you  might  call  funny  in  his  way  of  looking  at 
things."  She  paused  a  mtunent,  as  if  entirely  con- 
scious of  the  inadequacy  of  the  explanation.  "  I  do 
not  think,"  she  continued,  as  if  in  ])er])lexity,  '"  that  I 
can  explain  this  matter  any  more ;  but  if  you  will  talk 
to  O'Shea " 

"  Madam,"  burst  out  Caius,  "  can  it  be  that  there  is 
a  large  baiul  of  lawless  men  who  have  their  haunts  so 
near  this  island,  and  you  do  not  know  of  it?  Tuat," 
he  added,  with  emphatic  reproach,  "is  impossible." 

"  I  never  heard  of  any  such  band  of  men." 

Madame  Le  Maitre  spoke  gently,  and  the  dignity  of 
her  gentleness  was  such  that  Caius  was  ashamed  of  his 
vehemence  and  his  reproach.     What  he  wondered  at, 


'^i 


I  ,• 


!■  '^j 
s  '-A 


!!. 


:P"^^ 


III  fl1liiniiytHiMlMMIMMIMii*lii 


i    1 


l.    f 

%  j 


:'  I 


144 


THE  MERMAID. 


what  he  chafed  at,  was,  that  she  showed  no  wonder  con- 
cerning an  incident  whicli  her  hist  statement  made  all 
the  more  remarkable.  She  began  to  turn  to  go  towards 
the  house,  and  the  mind  of  Cains  hit  upon  the  one 
weak  point  in  her  own  acknowledged  view  of  the 
matter. 

"  You  have  said  that  it  is  not  safe  for  a  stranger  to 
walk  upon  the  sands  without  a  guide  ;  if  you  doubt  my 
statement  that  these  men  threatened  my  life,  it  yet 
remains  that  I  was  left  to  finish  my  journey  alone.  I 
do  not  believe  that  there  was  danger  myself.  I  do  not 
believe  that  a  man  would  sink  over  his  head  in  these 
holes ;  but  according  to  their  belief  and  yours,  mad- 
am  " 

He  stopped,  for  slie  had  turned  round  with  a  distinct 
flash  of  disapproval  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  statement."  She  paused,  and 
he  knew  that  his  accusation  had  been  rude.  "  It  would 
not  occur  to  me  " — there  was  still  the  slight  quaintness 
of  one  unaccustomed  to  English — "  that  you  could  do 
anything  unworthy  of  a  gentleman."  Another  pause, 
and  Caius  knew  that  he  was  bound  over  to  keep  the 
peace.  "  I  think  O'Slioa  got  himself  into  trouble,  and 
that  he  did  the  best  he  could  for  you  ;  but  O'Shea  lives 
not  far  from  your  own  liouse.  lie  is  not  my  servant, 
except  that  he  rents  my  husband's  land."  She  paused 
again. 

Caius  would  have  urged  that  he  had  understood 
otherwise,  or  that  hitherto  he  had  not  found  O'Shea 
either  civil  or  communicative ;  but  it  appeared  that 
the  lady  had  something  more  to  say  after  her  emphasis 
of  pause,  and  when  she  said  it  Cams  bid  her  good-day 
without  making  further  excuse  or  justification.    She  said  : 


»y 


A  LIGHT-GIVING   WORD. 


Uo 


"  I  did  not  understand  from  O'Shea  that  he  allowed 
you  to  walk  on  the  sands  without  some  one  who  would 
have  warned  you  if  there  had  been  danger." 

When  Caius  was  riding  on  his  way,  lie  experienced 
something  of  that  feeling  of  exaltation  that  he  had  felt 
in  the  presence  of  his  inexplicable  lady-love.  Had  he 
not  proof  at  least  now  that  she  was  no  dream  or  phan- 
tasy, and  more  than  that,  that  she  inhabited  the  same 
small  land  with  him?  These  people  knew  her;  nay 
(his  mind  worked  quickly),  was  it  not  evident  that  she 
had  been  the  link  of  connection  between  them  and  him- 
self? She  knew  him,  then — his  home,  his  circum- 
stances, his  address.  (His  horse  was  going  now  where 
and  how  it  would ;  the  man's  mind  was  confounded  by 
the  questions  that  came  upon  it  pell-mell,  none  waiting 
for  an  answer.)  In  that  other  time  when  she  had  lived 
in  the  sea,  and  he  had  seen  her  from  the  desolate  bit  of 
coast,  who  was  she  ?  Where  had  she  really  lived  ?  In 
what  way  could  she  have  gained  her  information  con- 
cerning him  ?  What  could  have  tempted  her  to  play 
the  part  of  a  fishy  thing?  He  remembered  the  mon- 
strous skin  that  had  covered  her ;  he  remembered  her 
motion  in  the  water.  Then  he  thought  of  her  in  the 
gray  homespun  dress,  such  as  a  maid  might  trip  her 
garden  in,  as  he  had  seen  her  travelling  between  the 
surf  and  the  dune  in  the  winter  blast.  Well,  he  lived 
in  an  enchanted  land ;  he  had  to  deal  with  men  and 
women  of  no  ordinary  stuff  and  make,  but  they  ac- 
knowledged their  connection  with  her.  He  was  sure 
that  she  must  be  near  him.  The  explanation  must 
come — of  that,  burning  with  curiosity  as  he  was,  he 
recked  little.  A  meeting  must  come ;  all  his  pulses 
tingled  with  the  thought.     It  was  a  thought  of  such  a 


m 


f' 


■t     i\ 


I       i 


\ 

i; 

1 

. 

' 

f 

146 


THE  MERMAID. 


high  sort  of  bliss  to  him  that  it  seemed  to  wrap  and 
enfold  his  other  thoughts ;  and  wlien  he  remembered 
again  to  guide  his  horse — all  that  day  as  he  went  about 
his  work — he  lived  in  it  and  worked  in  it. 

He  went  that  evening  to  visit  O'Shea,  who  lived  in 
a  good-sized  house  half  a  mile  or  so  from  his  own. 
From  this  interview,  and  from  the  clue  which  Madame 
Le  Maitre  had  given,  he  began  strongly  to  suspect  that, 
for  some  reason  unknown,  O'Shea's  threatenings  were 
to  be  remembered  more  in  the  light  of  a  practical  joke 
than  as  serious.  As  to  where  the  men  had  come  from 
who  had  played  their  part,  as  to  where  the  boy  had 
gone  to,  or  whether  the  boy  and  the  lady  were  one — on 
these  heads  he  got  no  light.  The  farmer  alfected  stu- 
pidity— affected  not  to  understand  his  questions,  or 
answered  them  with  such  whimsical  information  on  the 
wrong  point  that  little  was  revealed.  Yet  Caius  did 
not  quarrel  with  O'Shea.  Was  it  not  possible  that  he, 
rude,  whimsical  man  that  he  was,  might  have  influence 
with  the  sea-maid  of  the  laughing  face  ? 

Next  n.orning  Caius  received  a  formal  message — the 
compliments  of  Madame  Le  ]Maitre,  and  she  would  be 
glad  if  he  would  call  npon  her  before  he  went  else- 
where. He  pj  ssed  again  between  the  growling  mastiffs, 
and  found  the  lady  with  her  maidens  engaged  in  the 
simple  household  tasks  that  were  necessary  before  they 
went  to  their  work  of  mercy.  Madame  Le  Maitre  stood 
as  she  spoke  to  him : 

"  When  I  wrote  to  you  1  said  that  if  you  came  to  us 
you  would  have  no  chance  of  returning  until  the 
spring.  I  find  that  that  is  not  true.  Our  winter  has 
held  off  so  long  that  another  vessel  from  the  mainland 
has  called — you  can   see   her   lying  in  the  bay.      She 


A   LIGHT-GIVING   WORD. 


14' 


-the 
be 
lelse- 

the 
tliey 
stood 

I  to  us 

the 

|r  has 

liland 
She 


will  be  retunuMg  to  Pictou  to-morrow.  I  tliiiik  it  riglit 
to  tell  you  this ;  not  that  wo  do  not  need  you  now  as 
much  as  we  did  at  first;  not  but  tliat  my  hope  and 
courauje  would  falter  if  vou  went;  but  now  that  vou 
have  seen  the  need  for  yourself,  how  f]jreat  or  how  little 
it  is,  just  as  you  may  think,  you  ought  to  reeousider, 
and  decide  whether  vou  will  sta.  Ci"  not." 

Caius  spoke  hastily : 

"  I  will  stay." 

"  Think  !  it  is  for  four  months  of  snow  and  ice,  and 
you  will  receive  no  letters,  see  no  one  that  you  could 
call  a  friend." 

"  I  will  stay." 

"  You  have  already  taught  me  much ;  with  the  skill 
that  you  have  imparted  and  the  stores  that  you  have 
brought,  which  I  will  pay  for,  we  should  l)e  much  better 
off  than  if  you  had  not  come.  We  should  still  feel  only 
gratitude  to  you." 

"  I  have  no  thought  of  leaving." 

"  Remember,  you  thiidc  now  that  you  have  come 
that  it  is  only  a  handful  of  people  that  you  can  benefit, 
and  they  will  not  comprehend  the  sacrifice  that  you 
have  made,  or  be  very  grateful." 

"Yes,  I  think  that,"  replied  Cuius,  admitting  lier 
insight.     "At  the  same  time,  I  will  remain." 

She  sighed,  and  her  sigh  was  explained  by  her  next 
words  : 

"  Yet  vou  do  not  remain  for  love  of  the  work  or  the 
peo])le." 

Caius  felt  that  his  steady  assertion  that  he  would 
remain  had  perhaps  appeared  to  vaunt  a  heroism  that 
was  not  true.  He  supposed  that  she  had  seen  his  selfish- 
ness of  motive,  and  that  it  was  her  time  now  to  let  him 


l>i 


iiii 


'<g<"'!i"IW»JLJUJWW.  I, 


148 


THE  MERMAID. 


see  that  she  had  not  much  admiration  for  him,  so  tliat 
he  might  make  his  choice  without  bias. 

"  It  is  true  tliat  1  do  not  love  the  people,  but  I  will 
pass  the  winter  here." 

If  the  lady  had  had  the  hard  thought  of  him  that  ho 
attributed  to  her,  there  was  no  further  sign  of  it,  for 
she  thanked  him  now  with  a  gratitude  so  great  that 
silent  tears  trembled  in  her  eyes. 


Hi 


CHAPTER   XI. 


THE    lady's   husband. 


I 


It  was  impossible  but  that  Cains  sliould  take  a  keen 
interest  iit  his  medical  work.  It  was  tlie  first  time  that 
he  had  stood  alone  to  fight  disease,  and  the  weight  of 
the  responsibility  added  zest  to  his  care  of  each  ])articu- 
lar  case.  It  was,  however,  natural  to  him  to  be  more 
interested  in  the  general  weal  than  in  the  individual, 
more  interested  in  a  theoretical  problem  than  in  its 
practical  working.  His  mind  was  concerned  now  as  to 
where  and  how  the  contagion  hid  itself,  reappearing  as 
it  had  done  again  and  again  in  unlikely  places ;  for 
there  could  be  assuredly  no  home  for  it  in  air,  or  sea,  or 
land.  Nor  could  drains  be  at  fault,  for  there  were  none. 
Next  to  this,  the  subject  most  constantly  in  his  mind 
was  the  plan  of  the  hospital. 

Madame  Le  Maitre  had  said  to  him :  "  I  have  tried 
to  persuade  the  people  to  bring  their  sick  to  beds  in  my 
house,  where  we  would  nurse  them,  but  they  will  not. 
It  is  because  they  are  angry  to  think  that  the  sick  from 
different  families  would  be  put  together  and  treated 
alike.  They  have  graat  notions  of  the  differences  be- 
tween themselves,  and  they  cannot  realize  the  danger, 
or  believe  that  this  plan  would  avert  it ;  but  now  that 

149 


!'  1 


i 


i 


m  t; 


150 


THE  mp:rmaid. 


11  ; 

Ifi       ' 

i'i              i 

you  have  come,  no  doubt  you  will  be  able  to  explain 
to  tlioiu  more  clearly.  Perhaps  they  will  listen  to  you, 
because  you  are  a  num  and  a  doetoi".  Also,  what  I  have 
said  will  have  had  time  to  work,  '^'ou  may  reap  where 
I  have  sown." 

She  had  looked  upon  him  encouragingly,  and  Caius 
had  felt  encouraged  ;  but  when  lie  began  to  talk  to  the 
people,  both  courage  and  patience  quickly  ebbed,  lie 
could  not  countenance  the  plan  of  bringing  the  sick 
into  the  house  whore  Madame  Le  Maitre  and  the  young 
girls  lived,  lie  wanted  the  men  who  were  idle  in  the 
winter  time  to  build  a  temporary  shed  of  pine- wood, 
which  would  have  been  easy  enough,  but  the  men 
laughed  at  him.  The  only  reason  that  Cains  did  not 
give  Jiem  back  scorn  for  scorn  and  anger  for  their  lary 
indifference  was  the  reason  that  formed  his  third  and 
greatest  interest  in  his  work  ;  this  was  his  desire  to 
please  Madame  Le  Maitre. 

If  he  had  never  known  and  loved  the  lady  of  the 
sea,  he  thought  that  his  desire  to  please  Madame  Le 
Maitre  would  have  been  almost  the  same.  She  exer- 
cised over  him  an  inexplicable  influence,  and  he  would 
have  felt  almost  superstitious  at  being  nnder  this  spell 
if  he  had  not  observed  that  everyone  who  came  much 
in  contact  with  her,  and  who  was  able  to  appreciate  her, 
was  ruled  also,  and  that,  not  by  any  claim  of  taithority 
she  put  forth,  but  just  because  it  seemed  to  happen  so. 
She  was  more  unconscious  of  this  influence  than  any- 
one. Those  under  her  rule  comprised  one  or  two  of 
the  better  men  of  the  island,  many  of  the  poor  women, 
the  girls  in  her  house,  and  O'Shea.  With  regard  to 
himself,  Cains  knew  that  her  influence,  if  not  aug- 
mented, was  supplemented,  by  his  belief  that  in  pleas- 


THE   LADY'S   HUSBAND. 


151 


10 


ing  lier  lie  was  making  his  best  appeal  to  the  favour  of 
the  woman  lie  loved. 

He  never  from  the  first  dav  forgot  iiis  love  in  his 
work.  His  business  was  to  do  all  that  he  could  to  serve 
Madame  Lc  Maitre,  whose  heart  was  in  the  healing  of 
the  people,  but  his  business  also  was  to  find  out  the  an- 
swer to  tlio  riddle  in  whicli  his  own  heart  was  bound 
up.  The  first  step  in  this,  obviously,  was  to  know  Tuore 
about  Madame  Le  Maitre  and  O'Shea.  The  lady  lie 
dared  not  rpiestion  ;  the  man  he  questioned  with  per- 
sistency and  with  what  art  he  could  command. 

It  was  one  night,  not  a  week  after  his  advent,  that 
lie  had  so  far  come  to  terms  with  (J'Shca  that  he  sat  by 
the  stove  in  the  hitter's  house,  and  did  what  he  could 
to  keep  up  conversation  with  little  aid  from  his  host. 

O'Shea  sat  on  one  wooden  (diair,  with  his  stockinged 
feet  crossed  upon  another,  and  his  legs  forming  a  bridge 
between.  He  was  smoking,  and  in  the  lam})light  his 
smooth,  queer  face  looked  like  a  brown  apple  that  had 
begun  to  shrivel — just  begun,  for  O'Shea  was  not  old, 
and  only  a  little  wrinkled. 

His  wife  came  often  into  the  room,  and  stood  look- 
ing with  interest  at  Caius.  She  was  a  fair  woman,  with 
a  broad  tranquil  face  and  much  light  hair  that  was 
brushed  smoothly. 

Caius  talked  of  the  weather,  for  the  snow  was  fall- 
ing.    Then,  after  awhile  : 

"  By  the  way,  O'Shea,  icJio  is  ]\[adame  Le  Maitre?" 

The  other  had  not  spoken  for  a  long  time ;  now  he 
took  liis  clay  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  answered 
promptly : 


"An  angel  from  heaven, 
Ah,  yes;  that,  of  cours 


?5 


t 


*!  n 


■I. 


(( 


11 


i-«r- 


]  i 


152 


THE  iMEHMAID. 


11 


(/{lius  stroked  liis  uioiistaclic  witli  the  uftion  liabitiuil 
to  (Ira wing- room  gallantry;  then,  instead  of  persisting, 
he  formed  his  question  a  little  dilTerently : 
,      "Who  is  Mr.  Le  Maitre?" 

"  Sea-captain,"  said  O'Shea. 

"  Oil !  then  where  is  he  V  " 

"  Don't  know." 

*'  Isn't  that  rather  strange,  that  Ids  wife  should  be 
here,  and  that  you  should  not  know  where  the  hus- 
band is  ?  " 

"  T  can't  see  the  ships  on  the  other  side  of  the 
worUl." 

"Where  did  he  go  to?" 

"Well,  when  he  last  sailed"  —  deliberately  —  "he 
went  to  Newcastle.  His  ship  is  what  they  call  a  tramp ; 
it  don't  belonif  to  anv  loine.  Ho  at  Newcastle  she  was 
hired  to  go  to  Africy.  Like  enough,  there  she  got  cargo 
for  some  place  else." 

"  Oh  !  a  very  long  voyage." 

"  She  carries  steam ;  the  longest  voyage  comes  to  an 
end  quick  enough  in  these  days." 

"  Has  Madame  Le  ^Nlaitre  always  lived  on  this  island  ? 
Was  she  married  here  ?  " 

"  She  came  here  a  year  this  October  past.  She  came 
from  a  pljice  near  the  Pierced  Rock,  south  of  Gaspe 
Basin.  I  lived  there  myself.  I  came  here  because  the 
skipper  had  good  land  here  that  she  said  I  could 
farm." 

Cains  meditated  on  this. 

"  Then,  you  have  known  her  ever  since  she  was  a 
child  ?  " 

"  Saw  her  married." 

"  What  does  her  husband  look  like  ?  " 


THE  LADY'S   HUSBAND. 


153 


"WeU" — a  long  i)iuist'  of  considcnition — "like  u 
man." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man?" 

"  N  fit  bur  like  voii  nor  me." 

"  I  never  noticed  that  we  were  alike." 

"  You  trim  your  beard,  1  haven't  any ;  the  skipper, 
he's  hairy." 

Caius  conceived  a  great  disgust  for  the  captain.  He 
felt  pretty  well  convinced  also  that  he  was  no  favourite 
with  O'Sliea.  Jle  would  have  liked  mu(3h  to  ask  if 
Madame  Le  Maitre  liked  her  husband,  but  if  his  own 
refinement  had  not  forbidden,  he  had  a  wholesome  idea 
that  O'Shea,  if  roused,  would  be  a  dangerous  enemy. 

"  I  don't  understand  why,  if  she  is  nuirried,  she  wears 
the  dress  of  a  religious  order." 

"  Kever  saw  a  nun  dressed  jist  like  her.  Guess  if 
you  went  about  kissing  and  embracing  these  women  ye 
would  find  it  an  advantage  to  be  pretty  well  covered  up ; 
but" — here  a  long  time  of  pulfmg  at  tl\e  })ipe — "  it's  an 
advantage  for  more  than  women  not  to  sec  too  much  of 
an  angel." 

"  Has  she  any  relations,  anyone  of  her  own  family  ? 
Where  do  they  live?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  I  suppose  you  knew  her  people?" 

O'Shea  sprang  up  and  opened  the  house  door,  and 
the  snow  drove  in  as  he  held  it. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "  I  heard  a  body  knocking." 

"  No  one  knocked,"  said  Caius  impatiently. 

"I  heard  someone."  He  stood  looking  very  suspi- 
ciously out,  and  so  good  was  his  acting,  if  it  was  acting, 
that  Caius,  who  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder,  had 
:ious  feeling:  when  he  sav/  the  blank,  untrod- 


!ii 


■  u 


iperstiti 


If   '^ 


im 


:  "Sfe.; 


-^-~'^^^!*f«nfrfr-TTF5r— rT* — ^W 


154 


THE  MERMAID. 


deii  snow  stretching  wide  and  white  into  the  glimmering 
night,  lie  remembered  thiit  the  one  relative  he  be- 
lieved the  hidy  to  have  had  app^ired  to  him  in  strange 
pliices  and  vanished  strangely. 

"  You  didn't  hear  a  knock  ;  you  were  dreaming." 
Cains  began  to  button  on  his  coat. 

"'  1  wasn't  oven  asleep."  O'Shea  gave  a  last  suspi- 
cious look  to  the  outside. 

"  O'Sliea,"  said  (Jaius,  "  has — has  Madame  Le  Maitre 
a  daughter?  " 

The  farmer  turned  round  to  him  in  astonishment. 
"  Bless  my  heart  alive,  no  !  " 

The  snow  was  only  two  or  three  inches  deep  when 
Cains  walked  home ;  it  was  light  as  plucked  swan's-down 
about  his  feet.  Everywhere  it  was  falling  slowly  in 
small  dry  Hakes.  There  was  little  wind  to  make  eddies 
in  it.  The  waning  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  but  the 
landscape,  by  reason  of  its  whiteness,  glimmered  ju.;t 
visible  to  the  sight. 


liniin    iiffiiWiiimiwi 


ciiaptp:i{  XII. 


THE    MAIDEX    INVENTED. 


The  risliiii,i!;-bo{its  and  small  schooners  were  dragged 
liigh  up  on  the  boach.  The  ice  formed  upon  the  bay 
tliat  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  islands.  The  carpet  of  snow 
grew  more  and  more  tliick  upon  Held  and  hill,  and 
where  the  dwai'f  lirwoods  grew  so  close  that  it  could  not 
pass  between  their  branches,  it  draped  them,  fokl  above 
fold,  until  one  only  saw  the  green  here  and  there  stand- 
ing out  from  the  white  garment. 

In  these  davs  a  small  wooden  sleii^di  was  given  to 
Caius,  to  which  he  might  harness  his  horse,  and  in  which 
he  might  sit  snug  among  oxskins  if  he  preferred  that 
sort  of  travelling  to  riding.  Madame  Le  Maitre  still 
rode,  and  Caius  discarded  his  sleigh  aiid  rode  also. 
iMissing  the  warmth  of  the  skins,  he  was  soon  com- 
pelled by  the  cold  to  copy  Hobinson  Crusoe  and  make 
himself  l)reeciics  and  Icirirings  of  the  hides. 

In  these  ^.rst  weeks  one  hope  was  always  before  his 
eyes.  In  every  new  house  which  he  entered,  at  every 
turn  of  tlie  roads,  which  began  to  be  familiar  to  him, 
he  hoped  to  sec  the  maiden  wh  j  had  followed  him  u]ioti 
the  beach.  J Ic  (1  reamed  of  her  by  night;  he  not  only 
hoped,  he  expected  to  see  her  each  day.  It  was  of 
course  conceivable  that  she  might  have  returned  to  some 


!  I 

i  I 


I 


II 


,it:  !^ 


ii^i 


h 


11 


155 


,  ^«|Biiw. 


Iiia'li  ■i«iminii»-«i  I  iiiiiii  Hill  fi'iTiiiiiBiiMltUBBai 


156 


THE   MERMAID. 


-■ 


■>.   ts 


K  < 


W' 


other  island  of  the  group;  but  Cains  did  not  believe 
this,  because  he  felt  convinced  she  must  be  under  the 
protection  of  his  friends  ;  and  also,  since  he  had  arrived 
the  weather  had  been  such  tliat  it  would  have  been  an 
event  known  to  all  the  fishermen  if  anotlicr  party  had 
made  a  journey  along  the  sands.  When  the  snow  came 
the  sands  were  impassable.  As  soon  as  the  ice  on  the 
bay  would  bear,  there  would  be  coming  and  going,  no 
doubt;  but  until  then  Caius  had  the  restful  security 
tliat  she  was  near  him,  and  that  it  could  not  be  many 
days  before  he  saw  iier.  The  only  flaw  in  his  conclu- 
sion was  that  the  fact  did  not  bear  it  out ;  he  did  not 
see  her. 

At  length  it  became  clear  that  the  maiden  was  hid- 
ing herself.  Caius  ceased  to  hope  that  he  would  meet 
her  by  chance,  because  ho  knew  he  would  ali-eady  have 
done  so  if  it  were  not  willed  otherwise.  Then  his  mind 
grew  restless  again,  and  impatient;  he  could  not  even 
imagine  where  she  could  lie  hidden,  or  wliat  possible 
reason  there  could  be  for  a  life  of  uncomfortable  con- 
cealment. 

Caius  had  not  allowed  either  O'Shea  or  Madame  Le 
Maitre  to  suspect  that  in  his  stumble  he  had  involunta- 
rily seen  his  companion  on  the  midnight  journey.  He 
did  not  think  that  the  sea-maid  herself  knew  tiiat  he 
had  seen  her  there.  He  might  have  been  tempted  now 
to  believe  that  the  vision  was  some  bright  illusion,  if  its 
reality  had  not  been  proved  by  the  fact  that  ^ladnme  Le 
Maitre  k.u'w  that  he  had  a  companion,  and  that  O'Shea 
had  staked  much  that  he  should  not  take  that  long 
moonlight  walk  by  her  side. 

Since  the  day  on  whicli  he  had  become  sure  that  the 
sea-maid  had  such  close  and  real  connection  with  human 


THE  MAIDEN   INVENTED. 


157 


II  ta- 
He 
lie 
Inow 
its 
pLe 
Iphea 
long 

the 
Iman 


beinffs  that  lie  met  cverv  day,  he  had  ceased  to  have 
tliose  strange  and  uncomfortable  ideas  Jibont  her,  which, 
in  half  his  moods,  relegated  her  into  the  region  of 
freaks  practised  u})on  mortals  by  the  denizens  of  the 
unseen,  or,  still  farther,  into  the  region  of  dreams  that 
have  no  reality.  However,  now  that  she  had  retired 
again  into  hiding,  this  assurance  of  his  was  small 
comfort. 

He  would  have  resolutely  inquired  of  Madame  Le 
]\Iaitre  who  it  was  who  had  been  sent  to  warn  him  of 
danger  if  need  be  upon  the  beach,  but  that  the  lady  was 
not  one  to  allow  herself  willingly  to  be  questioned,  and 
in  exciting  her  displeasure  he  might  lose  the  only  chance 
of  gaining  what  he  sought.  Then,  too,  with  the  thought 
of  accosting  the  lady  upon  this  subject  there  always 
arose  in  his  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  brief  minute 
in  which,  to  his  own  confounding,  he  had  seen  the  face 
of  the  sea-maid  in  the  lady's  own  face,  and  a  phantom 
doubt  came  to  him  as  to  whether  she  were  not  herself 
the  sea-maid,  disfigured  and  made  aged  by  the  wrap- 
pings she  wore.  He  did  not,  however,  believe  this.  He 
had  every  reason  to  refuse  the  belief ;  and  if  he  had  had 
no  other,  this  woman's  character  was  enough,  it  ap- 
peared to  him,  to  give  the  lie  to  the  thought.  A  more 
intelligent  view  concerning  that  fleeting  likeness  was 
that  the  two  women  were  nearly  related  to  one  another, 
the  younger  in  charge  of  the  elder ;  and  that  the 
younger,  who  had  for  some  purjiose  or  prank  played 
about  in  the  waters  near  his  home,  must  have  lived  in 
some  house  there,  must  have  means  of  communiciition 
with  the  place,  and  must  have  acquainted  Madame  Le 
Maitre  with  his  position  when  the  need  of  a  physician 
arose.     What  was  so  dissatisfying  to  him  was  that  all 


i' 


Jl'l  .i 


^^|M' 


I 


^IM 


V  I'll' 


i1 


¥• 


158 


THE  .MKKMAID. 


tliis  was  tlio  merest  conjecture,  that  the  lady  whom  he 
loved  was  u  person  whom  he  had  been  obliged  to  invent 
in  order  to  explain  the  appearances  that  had  so  charmed 
him.     He  had  not  a  shadow  of  proof  of  lier  existence. 

The  ice  became  strong,  and  bridged  over  the  bay  tliat 
lay  within  the  crescent  of  islands.  All  the  islands,  with 
their  dunes,  were  covered  with  snow  ;  the  gales  which 
had  beaten  up  the  surf  lessened  in  force  ;  and  on  the 
long  snow-covered  beaches  there  was  only  a  fringe  of 
white  breakers  upon  the  edge  of  a  sea  that  was  almost 
calm. 

The  first  visitor  of  any  importance  who  came  across 
the  bay  was  the  English  clergyman.  Kearly  all  the 
people  on  Cloud  Island  were  Protestants,  in  so  far  as 
they  had  any  religion.  They  were  not  a  pious  people, 
but  it  seemed  that  this  priest  had  been  exceedingly 
faithful  to  them  in  their  trouble,  and  when  he  had  been 
obliged  to  close  the  church  for  fear  of  the  contagion, 
had  visited  them  regularly,  excei)t  in  those  few  weeks 
between  the  seasons  when  the  road  by  the  beach  had 
been  almost  impassable. 

Caius  was  first  aware  of  the  advent  of  this  welcome 
visitor  by  a  great  thum])ing  at  his  door  one  morning 
before  he  had  started  on  his  daily  round.  On  opening 
it,  he  saw  a  hardy  little  man  in  a  fur  coat,  who  held  out 
his  hand  to  him  in  enthusiastic  greeting. 

"  Well,  now,  this  is  what  I  call  Ijeing  a  good  boy — a 
very  good  boy — to  come  here  to  look  after  these  poor 
folk." 

Caius  disclaimed  the  virtue  which  he  did  not  feel. 

"  ^Motives !  I  doivt  care  anything  about  motives. 
The  point  is  to  do  the  right  thing.  I'm  a  good  boy  to 
come  and  visit  them ;  you're  a  good  boy  to  come  and 


I 


THE   MAIDEN   INVENTED. 


150 


uid 


iiig 
out 


— II 


ves. 
Iv  to 

and 


euro  tliom.  Tlioy  are  not  a  very  grateful  lot,  Tni  sorry 
to  say,  but  wo  have  nothing  to  do  with  that;  we're  })ut 
here  to  look  after  them,  {iiul  what  we  feel  about  it,  or 
what  they  feel  about  it,  is  not  the  question." 

He  had  come  into  Cains'  room,  stamping  the  snow 
off  his  big  boots.  lie  was  a  spare,  elderly  num,  with 
gray  hair  and  bright  eyes.  His  horse  and  sleigh 
stood  without  the  door,  and  the  horse  jingled  its  bells 
continnallv. 

Here  was  a  friend  !  Caius  decided  at  once  to  (jues- 
tiou  this  man  concerning  Madame  Le  Maitre,  and — that 
other  ladv  in  whose  existence  he  believed. 

"  The  main  thing  that  you  want  on  these  islai  ds  is 
nerve,"  said  the  clergyman.  "  It  would  be  no  good  at 
all  now" — argumentatively — "  for  the  Bishop  to  send  a 
man  here  who  hadn't  nerve.  You  never  know  where 
you'll  meet  a  quicksand,  or  a  hole  in  the  ice.  (Iinbby 
and  I  nearly  went  under  this  morning  and  never  were 
seen  again.  Some  of  these  fellows  had  been  cutting  a 
hole,  and — well,  we  just  saw  it  in  time.  It  wonld  have 
been  the  end  of  us,  I  can  tell  you;  but  then,  you  see,  if 
you  are  being  a  good  boy  and  doing  what  you're  told, 
that  does  not  matter  so  much." 

It  appeared  that  Chubby  was  the  clergyman's  pony. 
In  a  short  time  Cains  had  heard  of  various  other  adven- 
tures which  she  aiul  her  master  had  shared  together.  He 
was  interested  to  know  if  any  of  them  would  throw 
any  light  upon  the  remarkable  conduct  of  O'Shea  and 
his  friends ;  but  they  did  not. 

"  The  men  about  here,"  he  said — "  I  can't  make  any- 
thing out  of  them — are  they  lawless?" 

"You  see" — in  explaiiatory  tone — "if  you  take  a 
man  and  expose  him  to  the  sea  and  the  wind  for  half 


% 


llil 


11 


li 


Limmiimmmmmmmmimm 


i.         .': 


)         '' 


160 


THE   MERMAID. 


his  life,  you'll  find  that  he  is  pretty  much  asleep  the 
other  half,  lie  may  walk  about  witli  his  eyes  open,  but 
his  brain's  pretty  much  asleep ;  he's  just  equal  to  loung- 
ing and  smoking.  There  are  just  two  things  these  men 
can  do — fish,  and  gather  the  stuff  from  wrecks.  They'll 
make  from  eight  dollars  a  day  at  the  fishing,  and  from 
sixteen  to  twenty  when  a  wreck's  in.  They  can  afford 
to  be  idle  the  rest  of  the  time,  and  thev  are  gloriously 
idle." 

"  Do  they  ever  gather  in  bands  to  rob  wrecked  ships, 
or  for  other  unlawful  purposes?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  in  the  least !  Oh  no,  nothing  of  the 
kind !  They'll  steal  from  a  wreck,  of  course,  if  they 
get  the  chance  ;  but  on  the  sly,  not  by  violence.  Their 
worst  sin  is  independence  and  self-righteousness.  You 
can't  teach  the  children  anything  in  the  schools,  for 
instance,  for  the  parents  won't  have  them  punished  ;  they 
are  quite  sure  that  their  children  never  do  anything 
wrong.  That  comes  of  living  so  far  out  of  the  world, 
and  getting  their  living  so  easily.  I  can  tell  you,  Utopia 
has  a  bad  effect  on  character." 

Cains  let  the  matter  go  for  that  time ;  he  had  the 
prospect  of  seeing  the  clergyman  often. 

Another  week,  when  the  clergyman  had  come  to  the 
island  and  Cains  met  him  by  chance,  they  had  the  ojipor- 
tunity  of  walking  up  a  long  snowy  hill  together,  leading 
their  horses.  Cains  asked  him  tlien  about  Madame  Le 
Maitre  and  O'Shea,  and  heard  a  plain  consecutive  tale  of 
their  lives  and  of  their  coming  to  the  island,  which  de- 
nuded the  subject  of  all  unknown  elements  and  appeared 
to  rob  it  of  special  interest. 

Captain  Le  Maitre,  it  appeared,  had  a  life-long  lease 
of  the  property  on  Cloud  Island,  and  also  some  property 


THE   MAIDEN    INVENTED. 


KU 


i.cr 


he 


icr 


of 


i-ed 


lase 
rty 


on  the  niaiiilaiid  soutli  of  (Ijispe  Jiasiii ;  but  the  hind 
was  woi'tli  little  except  by  tillage,  and,  being  a  seaman, 
he  neglected  it.  His  father  had  had  the  land  before 
him.  Pembroke,  the  clergyman,  had  seen  his  father.  He 
had  never  happened  to  see  the  son,  who  would  now  ])e 
between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age  ;  but  when  Madame 
Le  Maitre  had  come  to  look  after  the  farm  on  Cloud 
Island,  she  had  made  herself  known  to  him  as  in  charge 
of  her  husband's  affairs.  She  found  that  she  could  not 
get  the  land  worked  by  the  islanders,  and  had  induced 
O'Shea,  who  it  seemed  was  an  old  farm  hand  of  her  own 
father's,  to  settle  upon  this  farm,  which  was  a  richer  one 
than  the  one  he  had  had  upon  the  mainland.  The  soil  of 
the  islands,  Pembroke  said,  was  in  reality  exceedingly 
rich,  but  in  no  case  had  it  ever  been  properly  worked, 
and  he  was  in  hopes  that  now  Madame  Le  ^Nlaitre  might 
produce  a  model  farm,  which  would  be  of  vast  good  in 
showing  the  islanders  how  much  they  lost  by  their  in- 
different manner  of  treating  thei''  land. 

"  Why  did  she  come  to  the  islands?" 

"  Conscientiousness,  I  think.  The  land  here  was 
neglected ;  the  people  here  certainly  present  a  field 
white  to  harvest  to  anyone  who  has  the  missionary 
spirit." 

"  Is  she — is  she  very  devout?"  asked  Caius. 

*'  Well,  yes,  in  her  own  way  she  is — mind,  I  say  in 
her  own  way.  I  couldn't  tell  you,  now,  whether  she 
is  Protestant  or  Papist ;  I  don't  believe  she  knows  her- 
self." 

"  He  that  sitteth  between  two  stools "  suggested 

Caius,  chiefly  for  want  of  something  to  say. 

"  Well,  no,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  Bless  you  !  the  truest 
hearts    on    God's  earth  don't    trouble   about   religious 


1 

1    V' ' 

1  ■*^r 

1    ^'^ 

1    || 

IM 

f 


E 


f* 


102 


THE  MEKMAII). 


opinions ;  they  have  got  the  cssontiiil  oil  expressed  out  of 
them,  und  that's  all  tlioy  want.'" 

To  Cains  this  subject  of  the  lady's  reli^^non  appeared 
a  matter  in  which  he  had  no  need  to  take  interest,  but 
the  other  went  on  : 

"  .She  was  brouglit  up  in  a  convent,  you  know — a 
country  convent  somewhere  on  the  (iaspe  coast,  and,  from 
what  she  tells  me,  the  nuns  had  the  good  jjolicy  to  make 
her  ha[)py.  She  tells  me  that  where  the  convent  gardens 
abutted  on  the  sea,  she  and  her  fellows  used  to  be  allowed 
to  fish  and  row  about.  You  see,  her  mother  had  been  a 
Catholic,  and  the  father,  being  an  old  miser,  had  money, 
so  I  su})pose  the  sisters  thought  they  could  make  a  nun 
of  her ;  and  very  likely  they  would  have  done,  for  she  is 
just  that  sort,  but  the  father  stopped  that  little  game  by 
making  her  marry  before  he  died." 

"  I  always  had  an  idea  that  the  people  on  the  coast 
up  there  were  all  poor  and  quite  uneducated." 

"  Well,  yes,  for  the  most  part  they  are  j)retty  much 
what  you  would  see  on  these  islands ;  but  our  Bishop 
tells  me  that,  here  and  there,  there  are  excellent  private 
houses,  and  the  priests'  houses  and  the  convents  are  tol- 
erably well  off.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  this 
lady's  father  had  some  education,  and  his  going  to  that 
part  of  the  country  may  be  accounted  for  by  what  she 
told  me  once  about  her  mother.  Her  mother  was  a  dancer, 
a  ballet-dance,  a  very  estimable  and  pious  woman,  her 
daughter  says,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  true  ;  but  an 
educated  man  who  makes  that  sort  of  marriage,  you 
know,  may  prefer  to  live  out  of  the  world." 

Cains  was  becoming  interested. 

"  If  she  has  inherited  her  mother's  strength  and 
lightness,  that  explains  how  she  gets  on  her  horse.     By 


THE  MAIDEN   INVENTED. 


1<)3 


Jovo!  I  never  siiw  a  woiiian  jump  on  a  horse  without 
help  us  she  does." 

"J list  so;  slie  lias  iiiarvellons  stren_£!:th  and  endur- 
ance, and  the  host  proof  of   that,    is   tlio   work  she  is 


doiuii   nowaday; 


W 


ly,  witli   tlu^   exeeptioii   <)!   three 


f   th 


days  that  she  came  to  see    my  wife,  and    would  have 
died    if   she   hadn't,   she    has   worked    night   and  day 

)le  for  the  last  six   months.     She 


umo 


n<r  tl 


U'S(;  sKdv  peo| 


came  to  see   my  wife  pretty  miieh  half  dead,  but  the 
drive  on  the  sand  and  a  short  rest  pretty  well  set  her 

U] 


)  aa'am 


a 


Pembroke  drifted  off  here  into  discourse  about  the 
affairs  of  his  parish,  which  comprised  all  the  Prot- 
estant inhabitants  of  the  island.  His  voice  went  on 
in  the  cheerful,  jerky,  matti^r-of-fact  tone  in  which  he 
always  talked,  ('aius  did  not  pay  much  heed,  except 
that  admiration  for  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  man  and 
for  the  pluck  and  hardihood  with  which  he  carried  on 
his  work,  grew  in  him  in  spite  of  his  heedlessness,  for 
there  was  nothing  that  Pembroke  suspected  less  than 
that  he  himself  was  a  hero. 

Pretty  tough  work  you  have  of  it,"  said  Cains  at 
last;  "if  it  was  only  christening  and  marrying  Jind 
burying  them  all,  you  would  have  more  than  enough 
to  do,  with  the  distances  so  great." 

"Oh,  bless  you!  my  boy,  yes;  it's  the  distance  and 
the  weather;  but  what  are  we  here  for  but  to  do  our 
work?  Life  isn't  long,  any  way,  but  Pll  tell  you  what 
it  is — a  man  needs  to  know  the  place  to  know  what 
he  can  do  and  what  he  can't.  Now,  the  Bishop  comes 
over  for  a  week  in  summer — I  don't  know  a  liner  man 
than  our  Bishop  anywhere  ;  he  doesn't  give  himself 
much  rest,  and  that's  a  fact ;  but  they've  sent  him  out 


^Jl 

m 

M 

1 

i 


'i,l 


m 


vn 


THE   MKKMAII). 


i    ii 


from  Eiighmd,  and  whut  docs  lie  know  about  these 
islands?  lie  sjiid  to  nie  that  he  wanted  nie  to  have 
niornin<^  service  every  Sunday,  as  J  have  it  at  Ilarhour 
Island,  and  service  every  Sunday  afternoon  here  on 
The  Cloud." 

"  He  might  as  wdl  have  suggested  that  you  liad 
morning  service  on  the  Magdalens,  afternoon  ser- 
vice in  Newfoundland,  and  evening  service  in  Labra- 
dor." 

"  Exactly,  just  as  i)ossible,  my  ])oy ;  but  they  had 
the  diphtheria  here,  so  I  couldn't  bring  him  over,  even 
in  fair  weather,  to  see  how  he  liked  the  journey." 

All  this  time  Cains  was  cudgelling  his  brains  to 
know  how  to  bring  the  talk  back  to  Madame  Le  Maitre, 
and  he  ended  by  breal 'iig  in  with  an  abruj)t  ijiquiry 
as  to  how  old  she  was. 

A  slight  change  came  over  Pembroke's  demeanour. 
It  seemed  to  Cains  that  his  confidential  tone  lapsetl  into 
one  of  suspicious  reserve. 

"  Not  very  old  " — drvlv. 

Cains  perceived  that  he  was  being  suspected  of 
taking  an  undue  interest  in  the  benefactress  of  the 
island.  The  idea,  when  it  came  from  another,  sur- 
prised him. 

"  Look  here !  I  ■"'.on't  take  much  interest  in  Madame 
Le  Maitre,  except  that  she  seems  a  saint  and  I'd  like 
to  please  her;  but  what  I  want  to  know  is  this — there 
is  a  girl  who  is  a  sister,  or  niece,  or  daughter,  or  some 
other  relation  of  hers,  who  is  on  these  islands.  Who  is 
she,  and  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  any  of  the  girls  she  has  in  her 
house?  She  took  them  from  families  upon  the  island 
only  for  the  sake  of  training  them." 


TflK   MAIDKN    INVKNTMD. 


105 


I  me 

is 


Iber 
md 


"  I  (lon't  meiiu  luiv  of  those  <nrl.sl" — this  with  cm- 
phiisis. 

"  1  don't  know  wlio  you  mujin." 

Cuius  turned  und  I'ueed  hiiii.  Do  wliiit  he  woukl,  lie 
eould  not  liide  liis  excited  interest. 

"  You  surely  must  know.  It  is  im))ossihle  that  tiiero 
should  he  ii  <;irl,  younii',  beiiutiful  juul  relineil,  living 
somewhere  ubout  liere,  and  vou  not  know.'' 

"1  should  siiy  so — (juite  impossible." 

"  Then,  be  kind  enoui,di  t'>  tell  nu' who  she  is.  I 
have  an  important  reason  for  askin*^." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  would  tell  you  with  all  the  pleasure 
in  the  world  if  I  knew." 

"  I  have  seen  her."     Cains  spoke  in  a  solemn  voice. 

The  priest  looked  at  iiini  with  evident  interest  and 
curiosity.     "  Well,  where  was  she,  and  who  was  she?" 

"  You  must  know  :  you  are  in  Madame  Le  .Maitre's 
conlidenee;  you  travel  froui  door  to  door,  day  in  and 
day  out ;  you  know  everybody  and  everything  upon  these 
islands." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  i)erson." 


n 


CIIAPTKIJ    XIII. 


wiiTTi:  niHDs;  wiiitk  sxow  ;  wiiitT':  TiroroiiTS. 


!' 


If; 


1?Y  degrees  Cuius  was  oblii^ed  to  pflvo  up  his  last 
linm'riiif'  belief  in  tiie  existence  of  the  ladv  he  loved.  It 
was  a  curious  position  to  be  in,  for  he  loved  her  none 
the  less.  Two  mouths  of  work  and  thouu-ht  for  the  dis- 
eased  people  had  slij^ped  away,  aud  by  the  mere  lajjse  of 
time,  as  well  as  by  every  other  proof,  he  had  coiue  to 
know  tiiat  there  was  no  maiden  in  auy  way  connected 
with  Madame  Le  Maitre  who  answered  to  tiie  visions  ho 
had  seen,  or  who  misjiit  be  wooed  bv  the  man  wlio  had 
ceased  to  care  for  all  other  women  for  her  sweet 
sake. 

After  Caius  had  arrived  the  epidemic  had  become 
worse,  as  it  had  been  prophesied  it  would,  when  the 
people  began  to  exclude  the  winter  air  froui  their  houses. 
In  almost  every  family  upon  the  little  isle  there  was  a 
victim,  iind  Caius,  under  the  compelling  force  of  the 
orders  which  Madame  Le  ]\Iaitre  never  mive  and  the 
wishes  she  never  expressed,  became  nurse  as  well  as  doc- 
tor, using  what  skill  he  had  in  every  possible  office  for 
the  sick,  working  early  and  late,  and  many  a  time  the 
night  through.  It  was  not  a  time  to  prattle  of  the  sea- 
maid to  either  ]\[adame  Le  ]\[aitre  or  O'Sliea,  who  both 
of  them  worked  at  his'  side  in  the  battle  against  death, 

ICG 


VVIHTM  niKDS:  WIIITK  SNOW;  WIIITK  TIIorcillTS.    ir,7 


a 
e 
e 

ir 
e 


niul  won*,  CaiuM  verily  Ix'l'u'vod,  more  liorDic  tmd  siiccos.'^- 
fiil  combatants  than  liiin.^clt'.  Some  solution  conci'i-nini,' 
liis  huly-lovc  tlu'i'c  must  be,  and  Cains  lU'itlicr  l*(»rL,'<»t 
nor  ^ave  up  bis  intention  of  probing-  tbe  lives  of  these 
two  to  discover  what  he  wished;  but  the  forebodini,^ 
that  the  diseoverv  would  work  him  no  weal  made  it 
the  easier  to  lay  the  matter  asi(h'  and  wait.  Tiicy  were 
all  bound  in  the  same  iey  prison  ;  he  eould  all'ord  jia- 
tien(!e. 

The  question  of  the  hospital  had  been  solved  in  this 
"way.  Madame  liO  Maitre  had  taken  O'Shea  and  his 
\vif(!  and  (diildren  to  live  with  her,  and  sueh  patients  as 
could  bo  persuaded  or  foreeil  into  liospital  were  taken  lo 
l)is  hous(!  and  luirsed  there,  'j'hen,  also,  as  tbe  disease 
became  more  prevalent,  people,  who  hail  thus  far  refused 
all  sanitary  measures,  in  dire  fear  oj)ened  their  doors, 
and  allowed  Chains  and  ()\Shea  to  enter  with  white- 
wash brushes  and  other  means  of  (iisinfeetinL,^ 

Cains  was  successful  in  this,  that,  in  })roj)ortion  to 
the  number  of  people  who  were  taken  ill,  the  death-rate 
was  only  oni^  third  of  what  it  had  been  befere  he  eame. 
lie  and  his  fellow-workers  wen^  successful  aiso  in  a  more 
radical  way,  for  about  the  end  of  Janiuiry  it  was  sud- 
deidy  observed  atnoufj  them  that  there  wei'e  no  new  eases 
of  illness.  The  ill  and  the  weak  nrnidually  j-eeovered. 
In  a  few  more  weeks  the  Anu-els  of  Death  and  Disease 
retired  from  the  held,  and  the  island  was  not  depopu- 
lated. Whether  another  outbreak  might  or  might  not 
occur  they  could  not  tell ;  but  knowing  the  thorougli- 
ness  of  the  work  whicli  they  had  done,  they  were  ready 
to  hope  that  the  victory  was  complete  Gradually  their 
work  ceased,  for  there  was  no  one  in  all  the  happy  island 
who  needed  nursing  or  medical  attendance.    Caius  found 


I  ' 


i 


w 


i\ 


.1 


■•:.( 


n\ 


!*i0»m 


I  I 


m 


m 


108 


THE  MERMAID. 


then  bow  wonderfully  free  the  pliiee  was  from  all  those 
ailments  which  ordiniiriiv  beset  bumiinitv. 

This  was  in  the  middle  of  Februnrv,  when  the  davs 

V        -'  ft. 

were  growing  long,  and  even  the  evening  was  bright  and 
light  upon  the  islands  of  snow  and  tlie  sen  of  ice. 

It  api)eared  to  Cains  thjit  .Madame  Le  ]\Iaitre  hud 
gTOY\'n  years  okler  during  the  pestilence.  Deep  lines  of 
weariness  luid  come  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  werj  heavy 
with  wjint  of  sleep  and  sympathetic  tears.  Again  and 
again  he  had  feared  that  tlie  disease  would  attack  iier, 
and,  indeed,  he  knew  that  it  had  only  been  the  constant 
riding  about  the  island  hills  in  the  wonderful  air  that 
had  kept  tlie  little  band  of  workers  in  health.  As  it 
was,  O'Sliea  had  lost  a  child,  and  three  of  the  girls  in 
the  house  of  .Madame  Le  Maitre  had  been  ill.  Now  that 
the  strain  was  over,  Caius  feared  prostration  that  would 
be  worse  than  the  disease  itself  for  the  lady  who  had 
kept  np  so  bravely  through  it  all ;  but,  ever  feeling  an 
impossibility  in  her  presence  of  sjieaking  freely  of  any- 
thing that  concerned  herself,  he  had  hardly  been  able  to 
express  the  solicitude  he  felt  before  it  was  relieved  by 
the  welcome  news  that  she  had  travelled  across  the  bay 
to  pay  a  visit  to  I'embroke's  wife. 

She  had  gone  witliOut  either  telling  Caius  of  her  in- 
tention or  biddijig  him  good-ijye,  and,  glad  as  he  was, 
he  felt  that  he  had  not  deserved  this  discourtesv  at  her 
hands.  Indeed,  looking  back  now,  he  felt  disposed  to 
resent  the  indifference  with  which  she  had  treated  him 
from  first  to  last.  Not  as  the  people's  doctoi*.  Jn  that 
capacity  she  had  l)oen  eager  for  his  services,  and  grateful 
to  him  with  a  speecidess,  reverent  gratitude  that  he  felt 
to  be  muLh  more  than  his  due ;  but  as  a  man,  as  a  com- 
panion, as  a  friend,  she  had  been  simply  unconscious  of 


WHITE  BIRDS;  WHITE  SNOW;  WHITE  TlIOLdllTS.   K^O 


to 


to 
111 

at 
ul 
lit 
ri- 
)f 


his  existence.  When  she  had  said  to  liini  at  the  begin- 
ninir,  "  You  will  be  lonely ;  there  is  no  one  on  the  island 
to  whom  you  ean  speak  as  a  friend,"  he  })ereeived  now 
that  she  had  exeluded  herself  as  well  as  the  absent  world 
from  his  companionship.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  had 
never  once  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  in  her  power  to 
alter  this. 

Truly,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Pembroke,  the  clergy- 
man, Cains  would  never  have  had  a  eoin})ani()nal)le 
word  ;  and  he  had  fouiid  that  there  were  limits  to  tlie 
interest  he  could  take  in  Pembroke,  tluit  the  stock  of 
likings  and  dislikings  that  thev  had  in  couimon  was  not 
great.  Then,  too,  since  the  day  on  which  he  had  (pies- 
tioned  him  so  vehemently  about  the  relatives  of  Madame 
Le  Maitre,  he  fancied  that  the  clergvman  had  treated 
him  with  apprehensive  reserve. 

At  the  time  when  he  had  little  or  nothing  to  do,  and 
when  Madame  Le  Maitre  had  left  ("loud  Island,  Cains 
would  have  been  glad  enough  to  go  and  explore  the 
other  islands,  or  to  luxuriate  again  in  the  cookery  of  the 
old  maids  at  the  inn  at  whicdi  he  had  iirst  been  housed. 
Two  considerations  kept  him  from  this  holiday-taking. 
In  the  first  })lace,  in  fear  of  a  case  of  illness  he  did  nd 
like  to  leave  the  island  while  its  benefactress  was  awav  ; 
and,  secondly,  it  was  reported  that  all  visitors  from  The 
Cloud  were  ruthlessly  shut  out  from  the  houses  u[)()n 
the  otlier  islands,  because  of  the  unreasoning  terror 
which  had  grown  concerning  the  disease.  Whether  he, 
who  carried  money  in  his  pocket,  would  be  shnt  out 
from  these  neighbouring  islands  also,  he  did  not  care  to 
infjuire.  lie  felt  too  angry  with  the  way  the  inhabitants 
behaved  to  have  any  dealings  with  them. 

The  only  means  of  amusement   that   remained    to 


In 


•UNNH 


ITu 


THE  .MKUMAID. 


Cuius  in  these  dsiys  were  liis  liorsc  and  a  u^nn  tliat  O'Shca 
k'lit  him.  With  his  luncli  in  liis  ])ockL't,  lie  I'ode  upon 
the  ice  as  far  as  he  might  go  and  relui-n  tlie  same  diiy. 
lie  followed  the  roads  tliat  led  hy  the  shores  of  the 
other  islands  ;  or,  where  the  wiiul  had  swept  all  de})t.h 
of  snow  from  the  ice,  he  took  a  path  according  to  his 
own  fancy  on  the  untrodden  whiteness. 

Colonies  of  Arctic  gulls  harboured  on  the  islaml,and 
the  herring  gidls  remained  througli  the  winter;  these, 
where  lie  coukl  get  near  their  rocks  upon  the  ice,  he  at 
iirst  took  lU'light  in  shooting  ;  but  he  soon  lost  tlie  zest 
for  this  s])ort,  for  the  birds  gave  themselves  to  his  gun 
too  easily.  Jle  was  capable  of  d<'riving  pleasure  from 
them  other  tlian  in  their  slaughter,  and  often  he  rode 
uiuh'r  their  rockv  homes,  notiii;r  how  chirk  their  white 
plumage  looked  jigainst  their  white  resting-})laces.  where 
groui)S  of  them  huddled  together  upon  the  icy  ijattle- 
ments  aiul  snowdrift  towers  of  the  castles  that  the  frost 
had  built  them,  Jle  would  ride  hv  slowlv,  ami  sh(K)t  liin 
gun  in  the  air  to  see  them  rise  ami  wheel  upward,  ap- 
pe^aring  snow-white  against  tlie  Idue  lirmament  ;  and 
watched  them  sink  again,  growing  dark  as  they  alighted 
among  the  snow  and  ice.  liis  warning  that  he  himself 
must  be  nearing  home  was  to  see  the  return  of  such 
members  of  the  bird-colony  as  had  been  out  for  the 
deep-sea  fishing.  When  he  saw  them  come  from  afar, 
living  high,  often  with  their  Aviiius  dved  pink  in  the 
sunset  rays,  he  knew  that  his  horse  must  gallop  home- 
ward, or  darkness  might  come  and  hide  such  cracks  and 
fissures  in  the  ice  as  were  dangerous. 


o^ 


The  haunts  of  the  birds  which  lie  chieiiy  loved  were 
on  the  side  of  the  islands  turned  to  the  open  sea,  foi-  at 
this  time  ice   had  formed  on  all  sides,  and  stretched 


)- 


■If 


le 


id 


re 


WFIITE  BIRDS;  WHITE  SNOW;  WHITE  TIIorCIITS.   171 

witlioiit  a  ])reiik  for  u  iiiilo  or  so  into  tlie  open.  There 
was  a  joy  in  riding  upon  this  tliat  made  riding  upon 
the  bav  tame  and  uninterestino; ;  for  not  oidv  was  tlio 
seaward  shore  of  ishirid  and  dune  wilder,  l)ut  tlie  ice 
liere  miulit  at  anv  time  break  from  the  shore  or  divide 
itself  up  into  large  islands,  and  when  the  wind  blew  he 
faneied  he  heard  the  waves  heaving  beneath  it,  and  the 
excitement  which  comes  with  daiiger,  which,  by  some 
law  of  mysterious  nature,  is  one  of  tlie  keenest  forms  of 
pleasure,  would  animate  his  horse  and  himself  as  they 
flew  over  it. 

Ilis  horse  was  not  one  of  the  native  ponies  ;  it  was  a 
well-bred, delicately-shaped  beast,  accustomed  to  be  nnide 
a  friend  of  by  its  rider,  and  giving  sympathetic  response 
to  all  his  moods.  The  horse  belonge<l  to  M.idame  Le 
Maitre,  and  was  similar  to  the  one  she  rode.  This,  to- 
gether with  many  other  things,  proved  to  Cains  that 
the  lady  who  lived  so  frugally  had  command  of  a 
certain  supply  of  money,  for  it  could  not  be  an 
easy  or  cheap  thing  to  transport  good  horses  to  these 
islands. 

Whatever  he  did,  however  his  thoughts  might  be 
occupied,  it  was  never  long  before  they  veered  round  to 
the  subject  that  "'as  rapidly  becoming  the  one  subject 
of  absorbing  interest  to  him.  Before  he  realized  what 
he  did,  his  mind  was  contirmed  in  its  habit;  at  morn, 
and  at  noontime,  and  at  niglit,  he  found  himself  think- 
ing of  ^ladame  Le  Maitre.  The  lady  he  was  in  love 
with  was  the  youthful,  adventurous  maiden  who,  it 
seemed,  did  not  exist ;  the  lady  that  he  was  always 
thinking  of  was  the  grave,  subdued,  self-sacrilicing 
woman  who  in  some  wav,  he  knew  not  how,  carried  the 
mystery  of  the  other's  existence  within  herself.  His 
12 


u 


; 


'U 


172 


THE  MERMAID. 


iiiiiul  was  full  of  almost  nothing  but  questions  concern- 
ing her,  for,  admire  and  respect  her  as  he  might,  he 
thouglit  there  was  nothing  in  him  tliat  responded  with 
anything  like  love  to  her  grave  demeanour  and  burdened 
spirit. 


V{    I  -(1 


.m 


'V\ 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


Tin:    MAKIilAGE   SCEXE. 


By  ridino;  across  the  smjill  lii2:oon  that  lav  beside 
Cloud  Island  to  the  inward  side  of  the  bay,  and  then 
eastward  some  twelve  miles  toward  an  island  that  was 
little  frequented,  the  last  of  the  chain  on  this  horn  of 
tlie  crescent,  one  came  under  the  hii^hest  and  bohlest 
fa(;ade  of  cliffs  that  was  to  be  found  in  all  that  group. 
It  was  here  that  Caius  chanced  to  wander  one  calm 
mild  day  in  early  ^[arch,  mild  because  the  thermometer 
stood  at  less  than  30°  below  the  freezing  point,  and  a 
light  vault  of  pearly  cloud  shut  in  the  earth  from  the 
heaven,  and  seemed,  by  way  of  contrast  with  other  days, 
to  keep  it  warm.  He  had  ridden  far,  following  out  of 
aimless  curiosity  the  track  that  had  been  beaten  on  the 
side  of  the  bay  to  this  farthest  island.  It  was  a  new 
road  for  him;  he  had  never  attempted  it  before;  and 
no  sooner  had  he  got  within  good  sight  of  the  land, 
than  his  interest  was  wholly  attracted  by  the  cl ill's, 
which,  shelving  somewhat  outward  at  the  top.  and 
having  all  their  sides  very  steep  and  smooth,  were,  ex- 
cept for  a  few  crevices  of  ice,  or  an  outward  hanging 
icicle,  or  here  and  there  a  fringe  of  icicles,  entirely  free 
from  snow  and  ice.  Ife  rode  up  under  them  wonder- 
ingly,  pleased  to  feast  his  eyes  upon  the  natural  colour 


IT.*? 


V  -   !  f 


'■f  ■:.: 


174 


THE   MIOUMAII). 


of  rock  and  earth,  and  eager,  with  wliat  knowledge  of 
geology  he  had,  to  read  the  story  they  told. 

This  story,  as  far  as  the  liistory  of  the  earth  was 
concerned,  was  soon  told;  the  clilt's  were  of  gray  car- 
boniferous limestone.  C'aius  became  interested  in  the 
beauty  of  their  colouring.  Blue  and  red  clay  had 
washed  down  upon  them  in  streaks  and  patches;  where 
certain  faults  in  the  rock  occurred,  and  bars  of  iron- 
yielding  stone  were  seen,  the  rust  had  washed  down  also, 
so  that  upon  flat  facets  and  concave  and  convex  surfaces 
a  great  variety  of  colour  and  tint,  and  light  and  shade, 
was  produced. 

lie  could  not  proceed  immediately  at  the  base  of  the 
cliffs,  for  in  their  shelter  the  snow  had  drifted  deep. 
lie  was  soon  obliged  to  keep  to  the  beaten  track,  which 
here  ran  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  from  the  rock. 
Walking  his  horse,  and  looking  up  as  he  went,  his  atten- 
tion was  arrested  by  perceiving  that  a  whitish  stain  on 
a  smooth  dark  facet  of  the  rock  assumed  the  appearance 
of  a  white  angel  in  the  act  of  alighting  from  aerial 
flight.  The  picture  grew  so  distinct  that  he  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  it,  even  after  he  had  gone  past,  until 
he  was  quite  weary  of  looking  back  or  of  trying  to  keep 
his  restive  horse  from  dancing  forward.  When,  at  last, 
however,  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  majestic  figure 
with  the  white  wings,  his  fancy  caught  at  certain  lines 
and  ptitches  of  rust  which  portrayed  a  horse  of  gigantic 
size  galloping  upon  a  forward  part  of  the  cliff.  The 
second  })icture  brought  him  to  a  standstill,  and  he  ex- 
amined the  whole  face  of  the  hill,  realizing  that  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  picture-gallery  which  Xature,  it 
seemed,  had  painted  all  for  her  own  delight.  lie 
thought  himself  the  discoverer  ;  ho  felt  at  once  both  a 


TIIK   MAKKIA(JE   Se'KNK. 


175 


ex- 

.  it 
lie 
li  a 


loneliness  and  elation  at  liiuling  liiuiself  in  tiiat  frozen 
solitude,  gazing  witli  fascinated  eyes  at  one  ])(>rtion  of 
the  rock  after  another  where  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw, 
sketches  of  this  and  that  wiiich  ravished  iiis  sense  of 
beauty  both  in  colour  and  form. 

in  his  excitement  to  see  what  would  come  next,  he 
did  not  check  the  stepping  of  Ids  horse,  but  oidy  kept 
it  to  a  gentle  pace.  Thus  he  came  where  the  road 
turned  round  witii  the  rounding  clilT,  and  here  for  a  bit 
he  saw  no  picture  upon  the  rock ;  but  still  he  looked 
intently,  hoping  that  the  panorama  was  not  ended,  and 
only  Just  noticed  that  there  was  another  horse  beside 
his  own  within  the  lonely  scene.  In  some  places  here 
the  snow  was  drifted  high  near  the  track ;  in  otiiers, 
both  the  road  and  the  adjoining  tracts  of  ice  were  swept 
by  the  wind  almost  bare  of  snow.  He  soon  became 
aware  that  the  horse  he  liad  espied  was  not  upon  the 
road.  Then,  aroused  to  curiosity,  he  turned  out  of  his 
path  and  rode  through  shallow  snow  till  he  came  close 
to  it. 

The  horse  was  standing  quite  still,  and  its  rider  was 
standing  beside  it,  one  arm  embracing  its  neck,  and 
with  head  leaning  back  against  the  creature's  glossy 
shoulder.  The  person  thus  standing  was  Madame  Le 
JMaitre,  and  she  was  looking  up  steadfastly  at  the  clids, 
of  which  this  point  in  the  road  displayed  a  new  ex- 
panse. 

So  silently  had  the  horse  of  Cains  moved  in  the 
muffling  snow  that,  coming  up  on  the  other  side,  he 
was  able  to  look  at  the  lady  for  one  full  moment  before 
she  saw  him,  and  in  that  moment  and  the  next  he  saw 
that  the  sight  of  him  robbed  her  face  of  the  peace  which 
hud  been  written  there.     She  was  wrajiped  as  usual  in 


i. 


M 


.11 


riki 


1 


If- 


■If 


170 


THE   MERMAID. 


her  fur-lined  eloak  and  hood.  She  looked  to  him  in- 
quiringly, with  perluips  just  a  touch  of  indignant 
displeasure  in  her  expression,  wailing  for  him  to 
cxi)lain,  as  if  he  had  come  on  purpose  to  interrupt 
lier. 

"  I  am  sorry.  I  had  no  idea  you  were  here,  or  I 
would  not  have  come." 

The  next  moment  he  marvelled  at  himself  as  to  how 
lie  had  known  that  this  was  the  right  thing  to  say ;  for 
it  did  not  sound  polite. 

Her  displeasure  was  a])peased. 

"  You  have  found  my  pictures,  then,"  she  said 
simj^ly. 

"  Oidy  this  hour,  and  by  chance." 

By  this  time  he  was  wondering  by  what  road  she 
luid  got  there.  If  she  had  ridden  alone  across  the 
bay  from  Harbour  Island,  where  the  Pembrokcs 
lived,  she  had  dore  a  bold  thing  for  a  woman, 
and  one,  moreover,  which,  in  the  state  of  health 
in  which  he  had  seen  her  last,  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  her. 

Madame  Le  Maitre  had  begun  to  move  slowly,  as  one 
wdio  wakes  from  a  happy  dream.  He  perceived  that  she 
was  making  preparations  to  mount. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  he  cried  ;  "  how  can  these 
pictures  come  just  by  chance?  I  have  heard  of  the 
Picture  Hocks  on  Lake  Superior,  for  instance,  but  I 
never  conceived  of  anything  so  distinct,  so  lovely,  as 
these  that  I  have  seen." 

"  The  angels  make  them,"  said  Madame  Le  ]\Iaitre. 
She  paused  again  (though  her  bridle  had  been  gathered 
in  her  hand  ready  for  the  mount),  and  looked  up  again 
at  the  rock. 


If  I 


THE  .MARRIAGE  SCENE. 


177 


Cuius  wjis  not  uiiheedful  of  the  force  of  that  soft  but 
absohite  assertion,  but  he  must  needs  speak,  if  he  spoke 
at  all,  from  his  own  poii^t  of  view,  not  hers. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "■  that  the  truth  is  there  is 
something  uj)on  tlie  roek  that  strikes  us  as  a  resem- 
blanee,  and  our  inui,i,d nation  furnishes  the  detail  that 
perfects  the  picture." 

"  In  that  ease  would  you  not  see  one  thing  and  I 
another?" 

Now  for  the  first  time  his  eves  followed  hers,  and  on 
the  gray  rock  immediately  opposite  he  suddenly  per- 
ceived a  picture,  without  definite  edge  it  is  true,  but  in 
composition  more  com})lete  than  anything  he  had  seen 
before.  AVhat  had  formerly  delighted  him  had  been,  as 
it  were,  mere  sketches  of  one  thing  or  another  scjittered 
in  ditferent  places,  but  here  there  was  a  large  grouj)  of 
figures,  painted  for  the  most  part  in  varied  tints  of 
gray,  and  blue,  and  pink. 

Jn  the  foreground  of  this  picture  a  young  man  and 
young  woman,  radiant  both  in  face  and  apparel,  stood 
before  a  figure  draped  in  priestly  garments  of  sober 
gray.  Ikdiind  them,  in  a  vista,  which  seemed  to  be 
filled  with  an  atmosphere  of  light  and  joy,  a  band  of 
figures  were  dancing  in  gay  procession,  every  line  of  the 
limbs  and  of  the  light  draperies  suggesting  motion  and 
glee.  How  did  he  know  that  some  of  these  were  men, 
and  some  were  women  ?  He  had  never  seen  such  dresses 
as  they  wore,  which  seemed  to  be  composed  of  tunics 
and  o-ossamer  veils  of  blue  and  red.  Yet  he  did  know 
quite  distinctly  which  were  men  and  which  were  women, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  a  marriage  scene.  The  bride 
wore  a  wreath  of  fiowers ;  the  bridegroom  carried  a  sheaf 
or  garland  of  fruit  or  grain,  which  seemed  to  be  a  part 


h. 


w 


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h 


I! 


ii 


ill  4: 


■ill' 


Ml 


n  • 


ITS 


THE  .MKUMAII). 


of  the  ceremony.  Cuius  tliouglit  he  was  about  to  offer 
it  to  tlie  priest. 

For  some  minutes  the  two  hjoked  up  at  the  roek 
quite  sik'ntly.     Now  tlie  hidy  answered  his  hist  remark  : 

"  Wiuit  is  it  you  see?" 

"  Vou  know  it  best;  tell  me  wliat  it  is." 

"It  is  a  weddin<;.  Don't  vou  see  the  weddinij 
dance?" 

He  had  not  got  down  from  his  horse;  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  if  lie  had  alighted  sh(}  would  have  mounted. 
lie  tried  now,  leaning  forward,  to  tell  her  how  clearly 
he  had  seen  the  meaning,  if  so  it  might  he  called,  of  the 
natural  fresco,  and  to  lind  some  words  ade(puitely  to  ex- 
press his  appreciation  of  its  beauty,  lie  knew  that  he 
had  not  expressed  himself  well,  but  she  did  not  seem 
dissatisfied  at  the  tribute  he  paid  to  a  thing  which  she 
evidently  regarded  with  personal  love. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  that  it  will  alter  soon, 
or  become  defaced  ?  It  has  been  iust  the  same  for  a 
year.  It  might,  you  know,  become  defaced  any  day, 
and  then  no  one  would  have  seen  it  but  ourselves.  The 
islanders,  you  know,  do  not  notice  it." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Cains;  "beauty  is  made  up  of  two 
parts — the  objects  seen  and  the  understanding  eye.  AVe 
only  know  how  much  we  are  indebted  to  training  and 
education  when  we  find  out  to  what  extent  the  natural 
eye  is  blind." 

This  remark  did  not  seem  to  interest  her.  He  felt 
that  it  jarred  somehow,  and  that  she  was  wishing  him 
away. 

"  But  why,"  he  asked,  "  should  angels  paint  a  mar- 


riage?    They  neither  marry- 


15 


He  stopped,  feeling 


that  she  might  think  him  flippant  if  he  quoted  the  text. 


TIIK   MARRIA(JK   SCENK. 


1TI> 


"  Boeaiiso  it  is  the  ])e.st  thing  to  paint,"  she  suid. 

''  How  the  best?" 

"  Well,  just  the  best  hnniun  thinir;  everyone  knows 
that." 

"  lias  her  marria<::e  been  so  gloriously  happy  V  saiil 
Cuius  to  hinisi'lf  as  the  soft  assurancf  of  her  tones 
reached  his  ears,  and  for  some  reason  or  other  he  felt 
desolate,  as  a  soul  might  upon  wiiom  the  (l<M»r  of  para- 
dise  swung   shut.      Then   irritably   he   said  :  "  /    don't 

kno\v  it.    Most  nuirriages  seem  to  me "    lie  stopi)e(l, 

but  she  had  understood. 

"  lint  if  this  picture  eruml)les  to  pieces,  that  does 
not  alter  the  fact  that  tiie  angels  nuide  it  lovely."  (Her 
slight  accent,  because  it  made  the  pronunciatio!!  of  each 
word  more  careful,  gave  her  s[)eech  a  quaint  suggestion 
of  instruction  that  perhaps  she  did  not  intend.)  "  The 
idea  is  painted  on  our  hearts  in  just  the  same  way ;  it  is 
the  best  thing  ^ve  can  think  of,  ex'cept  (lod." 

"  Yet,"  urged  Caius,  "even  if  it  is  the  best  from  our 
point  of  view,  you  will  allow  that  it  is  written  that  it  is 
not  a  heavenly  institution.  The  angels  should  try  to 
teach  us  to  look  at  something  higher." 

"  The  words  do  not  mean  that.  I  don't  l)elieve  there 
is  anything  higher  for  us.  1  don't  believe  people  are 
not  married  in  heaven." 

"With  sweet  unreason  slie  set  aside  authority  when  it 
clashed  with  her  opinion.  To  Caius  she  had  never  been 
so  attractive  as  now,  when,  for  the  first  time  to  him,  she 
was  proving  herself  of  kin  to  ordinary  folk  ;  and  yet,  so 
curiously  false  are  our  notions  of  sainthood  that  she 
seemed  to  him  the  less  devout  because  she  i)roved  to  be 
more  loving. 

"  You  see  " — she  spoke  and  paused — "  you  see,  when 


fi* 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  U5S0 

(716)  872-4503 


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4^ 


ISO 


THE  MEKxMAID. 


■I 
4' 


I  was  at  school  in  a  convent  T  liatl  a  friend.  T  was  per- 
fectly luipiw  when  I  was  witii  her  and  she  with  me;  it 
was  a  marriage.  When  we  went  in  tl»e  garden  or  on 
the  sea,  we  were  only  hai)i)y  wiien  we  were  with  each 
other.  Thiit  is  how  I  learned  early  that  it  is  only  per- 
fect to  be  two.  Ah,  when  one  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
lonely,  one  learns  that  that  is  true ;  but  many  people 
are  not  given  grace  to  be  lonely — they  are  sufficient  to 
themselves.  They  say  it  is  enough  to  worship  (.Jod;  it 
is  a  lie.  He  cannot  be  pleased  ;  it  is  sellish  even  to  be 
content  to  worship  (Jod  alone." 

"  Tlie  kind  of  marriage  you  think  of,  that  perhaps 
may  be  made  in  heaven."  Caius  was  feeling  again  that 
she  was  remote  from  him,  and  yet  the  hint  of  passionate 
loneliness  in  tone  and  words  remained  a  new  revelation 
of  her  life.  "  Is  not  religion  enough  ?  "  lie  asked  this 
only  out  of  curiosity. 

"  It  is  not  true  religion  if  we  are  content  to  be  alone 
with  God;  it  is  not  the  religion  of  the  holy  Christ;  it 
is  a  fancy,  a  delusion,  a  mistake.  Have  you  not  read 
about  St.  John?  Ah,  I  do  not  say  tliat  it  is  not  often 
right  to  live  alone,  just  as  it  may  be  right  to  be  ill  or 
starving.  That  is  because  the  world  has  gone  wrong ; 
and  to  be  content,  it  is  to  blas})hcme;  it  is  like  say- 
ing that  what  is  wrong  is  God's  ideal  for  us,  and  will 
last  for  ever." 

Caius  was  realizing  that  as  she  talked  she  was  think- 
ing only  of  the  theme,  not  at  all  of  him  ;  he  had  enough 
refinement  in  him  to  perceive  this  (piite  clearly.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  she  had  spoken  of  her  religion  to 
him,  and  her  little  sermon,  which  he  felt  to  be  too 
wholly  unreasonable  to  appeal  to  his  mind,  was  yet  too 
wholly  womanly  to  repel  his  heart. 


4^' 


nn 


THE  MARRIAGE  SCENE. 


181 


(:  i 


I 

IS 
0 

o 

0 


Some  dreamy  consciousness  seemed  to  come  to  her 
now  that  she  had  tarrie<l  longer  than  she  wished,  and 
perhaps  tliat  her  subject  had  not  been  one  tliat  slie 
cared  to  discuss  with  liim.  She  turned  and  put  her 
hand  on  tlie  jmmmel,  and  sprang  into  tlie  saildle.  He 
had  often  seen  lier  make  that  light,  wonderful  spring 
that  seated  her  as  if  by  nuigic  on  her  horse's  back,  but 
in  her  last  weeks  of  nursing  the  sick  folk  she  had  not 
been  strong  enough  to  do  it.  lie  saw  now  how  much 
stronger  she  looked.  The  weeks  of  rest  had  nuide  her 
a  different  woman ;  there  was  a  fresh  colour  in  her 
cheek,  and  the  tircMl  lines  were  all  gone.  Siie  looked 
vouuijer  bv  years  than  when  he  saw  her  last — vounijer, 
too,  tiian  when  he  had  first  seen  her,  for  even  then  she 
was  wearv.  If  he  could  only  have  seen  the  line  of  her 
chin,  or  the  heii'ht  of  her  brow,  or  the  wav  her  hair 
turned  ])ack  from  her  temples,  he  thought  that  he  might 
not  have  reckoned  the  time  when  he  had  tirst  seen  her 
in  the  sick-room  at  Cloud  Island  as  their  first  meeting. 

"  You  are  going  on  V  "  said  Madame  IjC  Maitre. 

"  Unless  1  can  be  of  service  to  you  by  turning  with 
you." 

lie  knew  by  the  time  of  day  tliat  he  must  turn 
shortly ;  but  he  had  no  hope  that  she  wanted  him  to  go 
with  her. 

"  You  can  do  me  more  service,"  she  said,  and  she 
gave  him  a  little  smile  that  was  like  tlie  ghost  of  the 
sea-maid's  smile,  "  by  letting  me  go  home  alone." 

He  rode  on,  and  when  he  looked  back  he  saw  that 
her  horse  was  galloping  and  casting  up  a  little  cloud  of 
light  snow  behind  it,  so  that,  riding  as  it  were  upon  a 
small  white  cloud,  she  disappeared  round  the  turn  of 
the  cliffs. 


III 


il 


m 


i\ 


182 


TIIK  MERMAID. 


Cains  found  no  more  pictures  that  day  that  he  felt 
to  be  wortiiy  of  much  attention.  He  went  back  to  the 
festive  scene  of  tlie  marriage,  and  moving  liis  horse 
nearer  and  further  from  it,  he  found  that  only  froni  the 
point  where  the  lady  had  taken  her  stand  was  it  to  be 
distiii'jtly  seen.  Twenty  yards  from  the  right  line  of 
vision,  he  might  have  passed  it,  and  never  known  the 
beauty  that  the  streaks  and  stains  could  assume. 

When  he  went  home  he  amused  himself  by  seeking 
on  the  road  for  the  track  of  the  other  horse,  and  when 
he  found  that  it  turned  to  Cloud  Island  he  was  happier. 
The  jdace,  at  least,  would  not  be  so  lonely  when  the 
lady  was  at  home. 


I:!: 


!■ 


BOOK  ILL 


CHAPTER   I. 


HOW    HE   HL'XTED   THE   SEALS. 


At  this  time  on  the  top  of  the  hills  the  fishermen 
were  to  be  seen  loitering  most  of  the  day,  looking  to  see 
if  the  seals  were  coming,  for  at  this  season  the  seals,  un- 
wary creatures,  come  near  tlie  islands  upon  the  ice,  and 
in  the  white  world  their  dark  forms  can  be  descried  a 
long  distance  off.  There  was  promise  of  an  easy  begin- 
ning to  seal-fishing  this  year,  for  the  ice  had  not  yet 
broken  from  the  shore  on  the  seaward  side  of  Uie  island, 
and  there  would  not  at  first  be  need  of  boats. 

Caius,  who  had  only  seen  the  fishermen  hanging 
aboui  their  doors  in  lazy  idleness,  was  quite  unprepared 
for  the  excitement  and  vigour  that  they  displayed  when 
this  first  prey  of  the  year  was  seen  to  approach. 

It  was  the  morning  after  Madame  Le  Maitre  had 
returned  to  her  home  that  Caius,  standing  near  his  own 
door,  was  wondering  within  himself  if  he  might  treat 
her  like  an  ordinary  lady  and  give  her  a  formal  call  of 
welcome.  He  had  not  decided  the  point  when  he  heard 
sounds  as  of  a  mob  rushing,  and,  looking  up  the  road 
that  came  curving  down  the  hill  through  the  pine 
thicket,   he   saw   the    rout  appear — men,   women   and 


^ 


184 


THE   MERMAID. 


» 

f 


J  if- 


cliiklrcn,  capped  and  coated  in  rough  furs,  their  clieeks 
scarlet  with  the  frost  and  exercise,  their  eyes  sparkling 
witli  delight.  Singly  down  the  liill,  and  in  groups, 
they  came,  hand-in-hand  or  arm-in-arm,  some  driving 
in  wooden  sleighs,  some  of  them  beating  such  imple- 
ments of  tinware  as  might  be  used  for  drums,  some  of 
them  shouting  words  in  that  queer  Acadian  French  he 
could  not  understand,  and  all  of  them  laughing. 

He  could  not  conceive  what  had  happened  ;  the  place 
that  was  usually  so  lonely,  the  people  that  had  been  so 
lazy  and  dull — everything  within  sight  seemed  trans- 
formed into  some  mad  scene  of  carnival,  ^riic  crowd 
swept  past  him,  greeting  him  only  with  shouts  and 
smiles  and  grimaces.  He  knew  from  the  number  that 
all  the  people  from  that  end  of  the  island  were  upon  the 
road  to  the  other  end,  and  running  after  with  hasty 
curiosity,  he  went  far  enough  to  see  that  the  news  of 
their  advent  had  preceded  them,  and  that  from  every 
side  road  or  wayside  house  the  people  came  out  to  join 
in  the  riotous  march. 

Getting  further  forward  upon  the  road,  Caius  now 
saw  what  he  could  not  see  from  his  own  door,  a  great 
beacon  fire  lit  upon  the  hill  where  the  men  had  been 
watching.  Its  flame  and  smoke  leaped  np  from  the 
white  hill  Into  the  blue  heaven.  It  was  the  seal-hunt- 
ing, then,  to  which  all  the  island  was  going  forth. 
Caius,  now  that  he  understood  the  tumult,  experienced 
almost  the  same  excitement.  He  ran  back,  donned 
clothes  suitable  for  the  hunt  across  the  ice,  and,  mount- 
i!ig  his  horse,  rode  after  the  people.  They  were  all 
bound  for  the  end  of  the  island  on  which  the  lighthouse 
stood,  for  a  number  of  fish-sheds,  used  for  cooking  and 
sleeping  in  the  fishing  season,  were  built  on  the  western 


now   11 K   IIUNTKD  TIIK  SHALS. 


1S5 


shore  not  fjir  from  the  light;  juid  from  the  direction  in 
which  tlie  sojils  had  appeiircd,  these  were  the  slu'ds  most 
convenient  for  the  i)resent  j)iir])ose. 

By  tile  time  Cuius  readied  tlie  slieds,  the  greater 
number  of  the  tisliermeii  were  ah'eady  far  out  ui)on  the 
ice.  In  boots  and  caps  of  the  course  gray  seal-si\in, 
with  guns  or  clubs  and  knives  in  their  hands,  they  had 
a  wild  and  murderous  aspect  as  they  marched  forward 
in  little  bands.  The  gait,  the  very  figure,  of  each  man 
seemed  changed ;  the  slouch  of  idleness  had  given  place 
to  the  keen  manner  of  the  hunter.  On  shore  the  sheds, 
which  all  winter  had  been  empty  and  lonely,  surrounded 
only  by  curling  drifts,  had  become  the  scene  of  most 
vigorous  work.  The  women,  with  snow-shovels  and 
brooms,  were  ck  iring  away  the  snow  around  them, 
opening  the  doors,  ligliting  fires  in  the  small  stoves  in- 
side, opening  bags  and  hampers  which  contained  provi- 
sion of  food  and  implements  for  skinning  the  seuls.  The 
tusk  that  these  women  were  performing  was  one  for  the 
strength  of  men ;  but  as  they  worked  now  their  merri- 
ment was  loud.  All  their  children  stood  about  them, 
shouting  at  play  or  at  such  work  as  was  allotted  to  them. 
►Some  four  or  five  of  the  women,  with  Amazouiaa 
strength,  were  hauling  from  one  shed  a  huge  kettle,  in 
which  it  was  evidently  meant  to  try  the  fat  from  certain 
portions  of  the  seal. 

Cains  held  his  horse  still  upon  the  edge  of  the  ice, 
too  well  diverted  with  the  activity  on  the  shore  to  leave 
it  at  once.  Behind  the  animated  scene  and  the  row  of 
gray  snow-thatched  sheds,  the  shore  rose  white  and 
lonely.  Except  for  the  foot-tracks  on  the  road  by  which 
they  had  come,  and  the  peak  of  the  lighthouse  within 
sight,    it    would     have    seemed     that    a    colony    had 


I    < 


ISC) 


THE   MKIIMAID. 


ift  * 


M 


suddenly  sprung  to  life  in  an  uninliabited  Arctie  re- 
gion. 

It  was  from  this  slope  above  the  sheds  that  Cains 
now  heard  himself  hailed  by  loud  shouting,  and,  look- 
ing up,  he  saw  that  O'Shea  had  come  there  to  overlook 
the  scene  below.  Some  women  stood  around  him. 
(.'aius  supposed  that  Madame  J^e  Maitre  was  there. 

O'Shea  made  a  trumpet  of  his  hands  and  shouted 
that  Cains  must  not  take  liis  horse  upon  the  ice  that 
day,  for  tho  beast  would  be  frightened  and  do  liimself 
h>«rm. 

Caius  was  affronted.  The  horse  was  not  his,  truly, 
but  he  believed  he  knew  how  to  take  care  of  it,  yet,  as 
it  belonged  to  a  woman,  he  could  not  risk  disobeying 
this  uncivil  prohibition.  Although  he  was  accustomed 
to  the  rude  authority  which  O'Shea  assumed  whenever 
he  wished  to  be  disagreeable,  Caius  had  only  learned  to 
take  it  with  an  outward  appearance  of  indilTerence — his 
mind  within  him  always  chafed;  this  time  the  affront 
to  his  vanity  was  worse  because  he  believed  that  Madame 
Le  Maitre  had  prompted,  or  certainly  permitted,  the 
insult.  It  did  not  soothe  him  to  think  that,  with  a 
woman's  nervousness,  she  might  have  more  regard  for 
his  safety  than  that  of  the  horse.  The  brightness  died 
out  of  the  beautiful  day,  and  in  a  lofty  mood  of  ill-used 
indifference  he  assured  himself  that  a  gentleman  could 
take  little  interest  in  such  barbarous  sport  as  seal-hunt- 
ing. At  any  rate,  it  would  go  on  for  many  a  day.  He 
certainly  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  dismounting 
at  O'Shea's  command  in  order  to  go  to  the  hunt. 

Caius  held  his  horse  as  quiet  as  he  could  for  some 
ten  minutes,  feigning  an  immense  interest  in  the  occu- 
pation of  the  women;  then  leisurely  curvetted  about, 


now   II K   mXTKI)  TIIK  SF.ALS. 


IS' 


|e 


|e 


ami  sot  liis  horse  at  a  li^'lit  tR)t  along  the  ice  close  by 
the  shore. 

lie  rode  hastily  l>ast  the  only  place  where  he  coulil 
have  ascended  the  hank,  and  after  that  he  had  no  means 
of  going  home  until  ho  had  rounded  the  island  and 
returned  by  the  lagoon.  The  distance  up  to  the  end 
was  seven  miles.  Caius  rode  on  under  the  lonely  clilfs 
where  the  gulls  wintered,  and  threading  his  way  upon 
smooth  places  on  the  ice,  came,  in  the  course  of  not 
much  more  than  an  hour,  up  to  the  end  of  the  clitTs, 
crossed  the  neck  of  the  sand-l)ar,  and  followed  the  in- 
ward shore  till  he  got  back  to  the  first  road. 

Now,  on  this  end  of  the  ishmd  very  few  families 
lived.  Caius  had  only  been  ui)on  the  road  he  was  about 
to  traverse  once  or  twice.  The  reason  it  was  so  little 
built  upon  was  that  the  land  here  belonged  entirely  to 
the  farm  of  Madame  Le  Maitre,  which  stretched  in  a 
narrow  strip  for  a  couple  of  miles  from  O'Shea's  dwell- 
ing to  the  end  of  the  island.  The  only  point  of  interest 
which  this  district  had  for  Caius  was  a  cottage  which 
had  been  built  in  a  verv  sheltered  nook  for  the  accom- 
modation  of  two  women,  whose  business  it  was  to  care 
for  the  poultry  which  was  kept  here.  Caius  had  been 
told  that  he  might  always  stop  at  this  lodge  for  a  drink 
of  milk  or  beer  or  such  a  lunch  as  it  could  afford,  and 
being  thirsty  by  reason  of  hard  riding  and  ill-temper,  he 
now  tried  to  find  the  path  that  led  to  it. 


i 


13 


CIIAPTKU  II. 


ONCE    MOKE   THE    VISION. 


1 

1, 

lit 


^?*" 


When  Cains  turncHl  up  the  farm  road,  which  was 
eutirely  sheltered  between  gentle  slo})cs,  the  bright 
March  sun  felt  almost  hot  U})on  his  clieek.  The  snow 
road  under  bis  horse's  hoofs  was  full  of  moisture,  and 
the  snowy  slopes  glistened  with  a  coating  of  wet.  lie 
felt  for  the  first  time  that  the  S2)ring  of  the  year  had 
come. 

He  was  not  qui  ortain  where  lay  the  cottage  of 
which  he  was  in  qutot;  and,  by  turning  up  a  wrong 
path,  he  came  to  the  back  of  its  hen-houses.  At  first  ho 
only  saw  the  blank  wall  of  a  cowshed  and  two  wooden 
structures  like  old-fashioned  dovecotes,  connected  by  a 
high  fence  in  which  there  was  no  gate.  Up  to  this 
fence  he  rode  to  look  over  it,  hoping  to  speak  to  the 
people  he  heard  within ;  but  it  was  too  high  for  him  to 
see  over.  Passing  on,  he  brought  his  head  level  with  a 
small  window  that  was  let  into  the  wall  of  one  of  the 
hen-houses.  The  window  had  glass  in  it  which  was  not 
at  all  clean,  but  a  fragment  of  it  was  broken,  and  through 
this  Caius  looked,  intending  to  see  if  there  was  any  gate 
into  the  yard  which  he  could  reach  from  the  path  he 
was  on. 

Through   the  small   room   of    deserted   hen-roosts, 

188 


ONTK   MOKK  TllK   VISION. 


ISD 


a 
liis 
the 

to 

a 

the 

lot 

lite 
I  he 

sts, 


tlii'ou;.,']!  tlu*  door  wliich  wii8  wiilo  o|h'Ii  on  the  other 
side,  he  saw  tiie  8imiiv  space  of  t!ie  vard  hcvoiid.  All 
tlie  fowls  were  gathered  in  an  open  j>lai't'  that  had  l)een 
shovelled  hetween  heaps  of  liard-paeked  snow.  'J'hero 
were  the  bright  tufts  of  eoeks' tails  and  the  glossy  backs 
of  heirs  brown  and  yellow  ;  there  were  white  ducks,  jimi 
ducks  that  were  green  and  black,  and  great  gray  geese 
of  slender  make  that  were  evidently  descended  from  tlie 
wild  goose  of  the  region.  On  the  snow-heaj)S  pigeons 
were  standing — Hitting  and  constantly  alighting — witli 
all  tlie  soft  dove-colours  in  their  dress.  In  front  of  the 
hirge  feathered  party  was  a  young  woman  who  stood, 
basin  in  hand,  scattering  corn,  now  on  one  side,  now  on 
another,  with  fitful  caprice.  She  made  game  of  tho 
work  of  feeding  them,  co(piettishly  pretending  to  throw 
the  boon  where  she  did  not  throw  it,  laughing  the  while 
and  talking  to  the  birds,  as  if  she  and  they  led  tlie  same 
life  and  talked  the  same  language.  Chains  could  not 
hear  what  she  said,  but  he  felt  assured  that  the  birds 
could  understand. 

For  some  few  minutes  Caius  looked  at  this  scene; 
he  did  not  know  how  long  he  looked;  his  heart  within 
him  was  face  to  face  with  a  pain  that  was  quite  new  iu 
his  life,  and  was  so  great  that  he  could  not  at  first  un- 
derstand it,  but  only  felt  that  in  comparison  all  smaller 
issues  of  life  faded  and  became  as  nothing. 

Beyond  the  youthful  ligure  of  the  corn-giver  Caius 
saw  another  woman.  It  was  the  wife  of  O'Shea,  and  in 
a  moment  her  steadfast,  quiet  face  looked  up  into  his, 
and  he  knew  that  she  saw  him  and  did  not  tell  of  his 
presence ;  but,  as  her  eyes  looked  lon^  and  mutely  into 
his,  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  silent  woman  understood 
something  of  the  pain  he  felt.     Then,  very  quietly,  he 


100 


TIIK   MKIIMAID. 


I-, 


tiirniMl  liis  horse  and  rode  back  ))}'  the  })atli  tluit  he  liad 
come. 

'V\\Q  woman  he  had  seen  was  the  wife  of  the  seii- 
eaptain  Le  Maitre.  lie  said  it  to  liirnself  as  if  to  be 
assured  tliat  the  self  witliin  liim  had  not  in  sonic  way 
died,  but  eonUl  still  s])eak  and  understand,  lie  knew 
that  lie  liad  seen  the  wife  of  this  man,  beeause  the  old 
eloak  and  hood,  which  he  knew  so  well,  had  only  been 
cast  oiT,  and  were  still  hanj^ing  to  the  .skirts  below  the 
girlish  waist,  and  the  white  cap,  too,  had  been  thrown 
aside  upon  tlie  snow — he  had  seen  it.  As  for  the  girl 
herself,  he  liad  loved  her  so  long  that  it  seemed  strange 
to  him  that  he  had  never  known  until  now  how  mucli 
he  loved  lier.  Her  face  liad  been  his  one  thought,  his 
one  standard  of  womanly  beauty,  for  so  many  years  that 
he  was  amazed  to  find  that  he  had  never  known  before 
how  beautiful  she  was.  A  moment  since  and  he  had 
seen  the  March  sunshine  upon  all  the  light,  soft  ringa 
of  curling  hair  that  covered  her  head,  and  he  had  seen 
her  laughter,  and  the  oval  tarn  of  the  dimpled  chin,  and 
within  the  face  he  had  seen  what  he  knew  now  he  had 
always  seen,  but  never  before  so  clearly — the  soul  that 
was  strong  to  suffer  as  well  as  strong  to  enjoy. 

By  the  narrow  farm-path  which  his  horse  wa3  tread- 
ing Caius  came  to  the  road  he  had  left,  and,  turning 
homeward,  could  not  help  coming  in  front  of  the  little 
cottage  whose  back  Avail  he  had  so  lately  visited.  He 
had  no  thought  but  of  passing  as  quickly  as  might  be, 
but  he  saw  O'Shea's  wife  standing  before  the  door,  look- 
ing for  him  with  her  quiet,  eager  eyes.  She  came  out  a 
few  steps,  and  Caius,  hardly  stopping,  stooped  his  head 
to  hear  what  she  had  to  say. 

"  I  won't  tell  her,"  said  the  woman  ;  then  she  pleaded  : 


ONCK   MOUK   TIIK   VISION. 


itn 


"  lict  lier  be,  poor  tiling  !     Let  her  bo  Imppy  while  she 


id: 


can. 


»i 


She  liad  slipped  buck  into  the  house;  Cains  had 
gone  on  ;  and  then  he  knew  that  he  had  this  new  word 
to  pnzzle  over.  For  why  shonld  he  be  snpposed  to  ma- 
lest  the  happy  honrs  of  tlu^  woman  lie  loved,  and  what 
conld  be  the  sorrow  that  dogged  her  life,  if  her  happy 
hours  were  supi)osed  to  be  rare  and  precious?  O'Shea's 
wife  he  had  observed  before  this  to  be  a  faithful  and 
trusted  friend  of  lier  mistress  ;  no  doubt  slie  .  ]  ke  then 
with  the  authority  of  knowledge  and  love. 

Caius  went  home,  and  put  away  his  horse,  and  en- 
tered his  small  house.  Kverything  was  elwuiged  to  hini ; 
a  knowledge  that  he  had  vaguely  dreaded  had  'ome,  but 
with  a  gfrief  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of.  For  he  had 
fancied  that  if  it  should  turn  out  that  his  lady-love  and 
Madame  Le  Maitre  were  one,  his  would  only  be  the  dis- 
appointment of  having  loved  a  shadow,  a  character  of 
his  own  creating,  and  that  the  woman  herself  he  would 
not  love;  but  now  that  was  not  what  had  befallen  him. 

All  the  place  was  deserted  ;  not  a  house  had  shown  a 
sign  of  life  as  he  passed.  All  the  world  had  gone  after 
the  seals.  This,  no  doubt,  was  the  reason  why  the  two 
women  who  had  not  cared  for  the  hunting  had  taken 
that  day  for  a  holiday.  Caius  stood  at  his  window  and 
looked  out  on  the  sea  of  ice  for  a  little  while.  He  was 
alone  in  the  whole  locality,  but  he  would  not  be  less 
alone  when  the  people  returned.  They  had  their  inter- 
ests, their  hopes  and  fears;  he  had  nothing  in  common 
with  any  of  them  ;  he  was  alone  with  his  pain,  and  his 
pain  was  just  this,  that  he  was  alone.  Then  he  looked 
out  further  and  further  into  the  world  from  which  he 
had  come,  into  the  world  to  which  he  must  go  back,  and 


!  , 


I 


wmmmm 


n\ 


192 


THE  MERMAID. 


m\ 


i'm- 


there  also  he  saw  liimself  to  b(  alone.  lie  eoiild  not  en- 
dure the  thought  of  sharing  the  motions  of  his  heart 
and  brain  with  anvone  but  the  one  woman  from  whom 
he  was  wholly  separated.  Time  might  make  a  differ- 
ence;  he  was  forced  to  remember  that  it  is  commonly 
saiil  that  time  and  absence  abate  all  such  attachments. 
He  did  not  judge  that  time  would  make  much  differ- 
ence to  him,  but  in  this  he  might  be  mistaken. 

A  man  who  has  depth  in  him  seldom  broods  over 
real  trouble — not  at  first,  at  least.  By  this  test  may 
often  be  knowji  the  real  from  the  fanciful  woe.  Caius 
knew,  or  his  instincts  knew,  that  his  only  chance  of 
breasting  the  current  was,  not  to  think  of  its  strength, 
but  to  keep  on  swimming.  He  took  his  horse's  bits  and 
the  harness  that  had  been  given  him  for  his  little  sleigh, 
cleaning  and  burnishing  everything  with  the  utmost 
care,  and  at  the  same  time  with  despatch.  He  had 
some  chemical  work  that  had  been  lying  aside  for  weeks 
waiting  to  be  done,  and  this  afternoon  he  did  it.  He 
had  it  on  his  mind  to  utilize  some  of  his  leisure  by  writ- 
ing long  letters  that  he  might  post  when  it  was  possible 
for  him  to  go  home  ;  to-night  he  wrote  two  of  them. 

While  he  was  writing  he  heard  the  people  coming  in 
twos  and  threes  along  the  road  back  to  their  houses  for 
the  night.  He  supposed  that  O'Shea  had  got  home 
with  the  girls  he  had  been  escorting,  and  that  his  wife 
had  come  home,  and  that  Madame  Le  Maitre  had  come 
back  to  her  house  and  taken  up  again  her  regular  rou- 
tine of  life. 


u- 


(( 


CHAPTER   III. 


LOVE,    I    SPEAK    TO   THY    FACE. 


»» 


Caius  thought  a  good  deal  about  the  words  that 
O'Shea's  wife  had  said  to  him.  He  did  not  know  ex- 
actly what  she  meant,  nor  could  he  guess  at  all  from 
what  point  of  view  concerning  himself  she  had  spoken ; 
but  the  general  drift  of  her  meaning  appeared  to  be  that 
he  ought  not  to  let  Madame  Le  Maitre  know  where  and 
how  he  had  seen  her  the  day  before.  In  spite  of  this, 
he  knew  that  he  could  neither  be  true  to  himself,  nor  to 
the  woman  he  was  forced  to  meet  dailv,  if  he  made  anv 
disguise  of  the  recognition  which  had  occurred.  He 
was  in  no  hurry  to  meet  her ;  he  hoped  little  or  nothing 
from  the  interview,  but  dreaded  it.  Next  day  he  wont 
without  his  horse  out  to  where  the  men  were  killing  the 
seals  upon  the  edge  of  the  ice. 

The  warm  March  sun,  and  the  March  winds  chat  agi- 
tated the  open  sea,  were  doing  their  work.  To-day  there 
was  water  appearing  in  places  upon  the  ice  where  it 
joined  the  shore,  and  when  Caius  was  out  with  a  large 
band  of  men  upon  the  extreme  edge  of  the  solid  ice,  a 
large  fragment  broke  loose.  There  were  some  hundred 
seals  upon  this  bit  of  ice,  which  were  being  butchered 
one  by  one  in  barbarous  fashion,  and  so  busy  were  the 
men  with  their  work  that  they  merely  looked  at  the 

193 


5 

m 

1 

h 

4 

T 

4 


'i 


% 


I  f 


104 


THE  MERMAID. 


it' 


'     1"        t! 
1 

■  I 

■i- 

'    «s 

11 

widening  passage  of  gray  water  and  continued  to  kill 
the  beasts  that  they  had  hedged  round  in  a  murderous 
ring.  It  was  the  duty  of  those  on  the  shore  to  bring 
boats  if  they  were  needed.  The  fragment  on  which 
they  were  could  not  float  far  because  the  sea  outside  was 
full  of  loose  ice,  and,  as  it  hapjiencd,  when  the  dusk 
fell  the  chasm  of  water  between  them  and  the  shore 
was  not  too  broad  to  be  jumped  easily,  for  the  ice,  hav- 
ing first  moved  seaward,  now  moved  landward  with  the 
tide. 

For  two  or  three  days  Caius  lent  a  hand  at  killing 
and  skinning  the  gentle-eyed  animals.  It  was  not  that 
he  did  not  feel  some  disgust  at  the  work ;  but  it  meant 
bread  to  the  men  he  was  with,  and  he  might  as  well  help 
them.  It  was  an  experience,  and,  above  all,  it  was  dis- 
traction. When  the  women  had  seen  him  at  work  they 
welcomed  him  with  demonstrative  joy  to  the  hot  meals 
which  they  prepared  twice  a  day  for  the  hunters.  Caius 
was  not  quite  sure  what  composed  the  soups  and  stews 
of  which  he  partook,  but  they  tasted  good  enough. 
■  When  he  had  had  enough  of  the  seal-hunt  it  took  him 
all  the  next  day  to  cleanse  the  clothes  he  had  worn  from 
the  smell  of  the  fat,  and  he  felt  himself  to  be  elfeminate 
in  the  fastidiousness  that  made  him  do  it. 

During  all  these  days  the  houses  and  roads  of  the 
island  were  almost  completely  deserted,  except  that  Caius 
supposed  that,  after  the  first  holiday,  the  maids  who 
lived  with  Madame  Le  Maitre  were  kept  to  their  usual 
household  tasks,  and  that  their  mistress  worked  with 
them. 

At  last,  one  day  when  Caius  was  coming  from  a  house 
on  one  of  the  hills  which  he  had  visited  because  there 
was  in  it  a  little  mortal  very  new  to  this  world,  he  saw 


LOVE,  I   SPEAK  TO  THY   FACE." 


195 


Madame  Le  Mai  Ire  riding  up  the  snowy  road  that  he 
was  descending.  He  felt  ghid,  at  the  tirst  sight  of  lier, 
that  he  was  no  longer  a  vouth  hut  had  fullv  come  to 
man's  estate,  and  luid  attained  to  that  command  of  nerve 
and  con({uest  over  a  heating  heart  that  is  the  normal 
heritage  of  manliood.  This  thought  came  to  him  because 
he  was  so  vividly  reminded  of  the  hour  in  which  he  had 
once  before  sought  an  interview  with  this  lady — even 
holding  her  hand  in  his — and  of  his  ignominious  repulse. 
In  spite  of  the  sadness  of  his  heart,  a  smile  crossed  his 
face,  but  it  was  gone  before  he  met  her.  He  had  quite 
given  up  wondering  now  about  that  seafaring  episode, 
and  accepted  it  oidy  as  a  fact.  It  did  not  matter  to 
him  why  or  how  she  had  played  her  part ;  it  was  enough 
that  she  had  done  it,  and  all  that  she  did  was  right  in 
his  eyes. 

The  lady's  horse  was  walking  slowly  up  the  heavy 
hill ;  the  reins  she  hardly  held,  letting  them  loose  upon 
its  neck.  It  was  evident  that  with  her  there  was  no 
difference  since  the  time  slic  had  last  seen  Caius ;  it 
appeared  that  she  did  not  even  purpose  stopping  her 
horse.  Catus  stopped  it  gently,  laying  his  hand  upon 
its  neck. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  with  evident  curiosity,  for 
the  face  that  he  turned  to  her  made  her  aware  that  there 
was  something  new  in  her  quiet  life. 

It  was  not  easy  to  lind  his  words ;  he  did  not  care 
much  to  do  so  quickly.  "1  could  not  go  on,"  he  said, 
"  without  letting  you  know "     He  stopped. 

She  did  not  answer  him  with  any  quick  impatient 
question.  She  looked  at  the  snowy  hill  in  front  of  her. 
"Well?  "she  said. 


i'i-! 


'i 


ii 


i 

ir 


a 


The  other  day,  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  rode  by  the 


II  i 


19G 


THE   MERMAID. 


back  of  your  poultry  farm,  and — I  saw  you  when  you 
were  feedincj  the  birds." 

"Yes?"  she  said;  slie  was  still  looking  gravely 
enough  at  the  snow.  The  communication  so  far  did  not 
affect  her  much. 

"  Then,  when  I  saw  you,  I  knew  that  I  had  seen  you 
before — in  the  sea — at  home." 

A  red  flush  had  mantled  her  face.  There  was 
perhaps  an  air  of  offence,  for  he  saw  that  she  held  her 
head  liigher,  and  knew  what  the  turn  of  the  neck  would 
be  in  spite  of  the  clumsy  hood  ;  but  what  surprised  him 
most  was  that  she  did  not  express  any  surprise  or  dismay. 

"  I  did  not  suppose,"  she  said,  in  her  own  gentle, 
distant  way,  "  that  if  you  had  a  good  memory  for  tluit 
— foolish  i>lay,  you  would  not  know  me  again."  Her 
manner  added  :   "  I  have  attempted  no  concealment." 

"I  did  rot  know  you  in  that  dress  you  wear" — 
there  was  hatred  for  the  dress  in  his  tone  as  he  men- 
tioned it — "  so  I  supposed  that  you  did  not  expect  me 
to  know  who  you  were." 

She  did  not  reply,  leaving  the  burden  of  finding  the 
next  words  upon  lum.  It  would  seem  that  she  did  not 
think  there  was  more  to  say ;  and  this,  her  supreme 
indifference  to  his  recognition  or  non-recognition,  half 
maddened  him.  He  suddenly  saw  his  case  in  a  new 
aspect — she  was  a  cruel  woman,  and  he  had  much  with 
which  to  reproach  her. 

" '  That  foolish  play,'  as  you  call  it "he  had  begun 

angrily,  but  a  certain  sympathy  for  her,  new-born  out 
of  his  own  trouble,  stopped  him,  and  he  went  on,  only 
reproach  in  his  tone  .  "•  It  was  a  sad  play  for  me,  because 
art  has  never  be( 


my 


my 


find  out  who  you  were  then,  or  where  you  hid  yourself 


"LOVE,  1   :5PEAK   Tv;  THY   FACE.' 


19' 


I  do  not  know  now,  but "'      lie  stopped  ;    he  did 

not  wish  to  oticnd  her;  he  looked  iit  the  glossy  neck  of 
the  horse  he  was  holding.  "  1  was  young  and  very  fool- 
ish, but  I  loved  you." 

The  sound  of  his  own  low  sad  tones  was  still  in  his 
ears  when  he  also  heard  the  low  music  of  irrepressible 
laughter,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  that  the  recollection 
which  a  few  minutes  before  had  made  him  smile  had 
now  entirely  overcome  the  lady's  gravity.  She  was 
blushing,  she  was  trying  not  to  laugh;  but  in  spite  of 
herself  she  did  laugh  more  and  more  heartily,  and 
although  her  merriment  was  inopportune,  he  could  not 
help  joining  in  it  to  some  extent.  It  was  so  cheerful  to 
see  the  laughter-loving  self  appear  within  the  grave 
face,  to  be  beside  her,  and  to  have  partnership  in  her 
mirth.  So  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  they 
both  laughed,  and  after  tliat  they  felt  better. 

"  And  yet,"  said  he,  "  it  was  a  frolic  that  has  worked 
sorrow  for  me." 

"  Come,"  said  she,  lifting  her  reins,  "  you  will  regret 
if  you  go  on  talking  this  way." 

She  would  have  gone  on  quite  lightly  and  content- 
edly, and  left  him  there  as  if  he  had  said  nothing  of 
love,  as  if  their  words  had  been  the  mere  reminiscence 
of  a  past  that  had  no  result  in  the  present,  as  if  his  heart 
was  noi:  breaking ;  but  a  fierce  sense  of  this  injustice 
made  him  keep  his  hold  of  her  bridle.  She  could  weep 
over  the  pains  of  the  poor  and  the  death  of  their  chil- 
dren. She  should  not  go  unmindful  that  his  happiness 
was  wrecked. 

"  Do  you  still  take  me  for  the  young  muff  that  I  used 
to  be,  that  you  pay  no  heed  to  what  I  say  ?  I  would 
scorn  to  meet  you  every  day  while  I  must  remain  here 


I  r 


198 


THE  MERMAID, 


and  conceal  from  you  the  fact  which,  such  is  my  weak- 
ness, is  the  only  fact  in  life  for  me  just  now.  My  heart 
is  breaking  because  I  have  found  that  the  woman  I  love 
is  wholly  out  of  my  reacli.  Can  you  not  give  that  a  pass- 
ing thought  of  pity  ?  I  have  told  you  now  ;  when  we 
meet,  you  will  know  that  it  is  not  as  indifferent  acquaint- 
ances, but  as — enemies  if  you  will,  for  you,  a  happy 
married  woman — will  count  me  your  enemy  !  Yet 
I  have  not  harmed  you,  and  the  truth  is  better  at  all 
costs." 

She  was  giving  him  her  full  attention  now,  her  lips 
a  little  parted  as  if  with  surprise,  question  plainly  writ- 
ten upon  her  face.  He  could  not  understand  how  the 
cap  and  hood  had  ever  concealed  her  from  him.  Her 
chief  beauty  lay,  perhaps,  in  the  brow,  in  the  shape  of 
the  face,  and  in  its  wreath  of  hair — or  at  least  in  the 
charm  that  these  gave  to  the  strong  character  of  the 
features  ;  but  now  that  he  knew  her,  he  knew  her  face 
wholly,  and  his  mind  filled  in  what  was  lacking ;  he 
could  perceive  no  lack.  He  looked  at  her,  his  eyes  full 
of  admiration,  puzzled  the  while  at  her  evident  sur- 
prise. 

"  But  surely,"  she  said,  "  you  cannot  be  so  foolish — 
you,  a  man  now — to  think  that  the  fancy  you  took  to  a 
pretty  face,  for  it  could  have  been  nothing  more,  was  of 
any  importance." 

"  Such  fancies  make  or  mar  the  lives  of  men." 

"  Of  unprincipled  fools,  yes — of  men  who  care  for 
appearance  more  than  sympathy.  But  you  are  not  such 
a  man  !  It  is  not  as  if  we  had  been  friends ;  it  is 
not  as  if  we  had  ever  spoken.  It  is  wicked  to  call 
such  a  foolish  fancy  by  the  name  of  love ;  it  is  dese- 
cration." 


"LOVE,  I  SPEAK   TO  THY   FACE." 


100 


While  she  was  speaking,  lier  words  revealod  to  Cuius, 
with  swift  aniilysis,  51  (lisiiiK'tiou  tliat  ho  luid  not  made 
before.  He  knew  now  that  before  lie  came  to  this  island, 
before  he  had  gone  through  the  three  months  of  toil  and 
suffering  with  Josephine  Le  Maitre,  it  would  truly  have 
been  foolisii  to  think  of  his  sentiment  concerning  her  as 
more  than  a  tender  ideal.  Now,  that  which  had  sur- 
prised him  into  a  strength  of  love  almost  too  great  to  be 
in  keeping  with  his  character,  was  the  unity  of  two  be- 
ings whom  he  had  believed  to  be  distinct — the  playmate 
and  the  saint. 

"  Whether  the  liking  we  take  to  a  beautiful  face  be 
base  or  noble  depends,  madame,  upon  the  face  ;  and  no 
man  could  see  yours  without  being  a  better  man  for  the 
sight.  But  think  :  when  I  saw  the  face  that  had  been 
enshrined  for  years  in  my  memory  yesterday,  Avas  it  the 
face  of  a  woman  whom  I  did  not  know — with  whom  I 
had  never  spoken  ?  "  lie  was  not  looking  at  her  as  he 
spoke.  He  added,  and  his  heart  was  revea\'d  in  the 
tone  :  "  Voii  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  shut  out  from 
all  that  is  good  on  earth." 

There  came  no  answer ;  in  a  moment  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  see  what  response  she  gave,  and  he  was  aston- 
ished to  detect  a  look  upon  her  face  that  would  have  be- 
come an  angel  who  had  received  some  fresh  beatitude. 
It  was  plain  that  now  she  saw  and  believed  the  truth  of 
his  love  ;  it  appeared,  too,  that  she  felt  it  to  be  a  bless- 
ing. He  could  not  understand  this,  but  she  wasted  no 
words  in  explanation.  When  her  eyes  met  his,  the  joy 
in  her  face  passed  into  pity  for  a  minute  ;  she  looked  at 
him  quietly  and  frankly  ;  then  she  said  : 

"  Love  is  good  in  itself,  and  suffering  is  good,  and 
God  is  good.     I  think,"  she  added  very  simply,  as  a  child 


•r' 


If 


a 


200 


THE  MERMAID. 


might  have  done,  "  that  you  are  good,  too.     Do  not  fear 
or  bo  discouraged." 

Then,  witli  lier  own  hand,  she  gently  disengaged  his 
from  the  bridle  and  rode  up  the  hill  on  her  errand  of 
mercy. 


mil 


til 


ciiaptp:r  IV. 


HOPE    BOKN   or   SPRING. 


"  Love  is  good  ;  sufTering  is  good  ;  God  is  good  " — 
that  was  wluit  she  luid  answered  him  wlieii  he  liad  said 
that  for  her  sake  lie  was  shut  out  from  all  that  was 
good  on  earth.  His  heart  did  not  rebel  so  bitterly 
against  this  answer  as  it  Avould  have  done  if  he  had  not 
felt  assured  that  she  spoke  of  what  she  had  experienced, 
and  that  his  present  experience  was  in  some  sort  a  >  om- 
radeship  with  her.  Then,  again,  there  was  the  inex- 
plicable fact  that  the  knowledge  of  the  way  in  which  ho 
regarded  her  had  given  her  pleasure ;  that  was  a  great 
consolation  to  him,  although  he  did  not  gather  from  it 
any  hope  for  the  future.  Her  whole  manner  indicated 
that  she  was,  as  he  supposed  her  to  be,  entirely  out  of 
his  reach,  not  only  by  the  barrier  of  circumstance,  but 
by  her  own  deliberate  preference  ;  and  yet  he  was  cer- 
tain that  she  was  glad  that  he  loved  her.  What  did 
that  mean  ?  He  had  so  seen  her  life  that  he  knew  she 
was  incapable  of  vanity  or  selfish  satisfaction ;  when 
she  was  glad  it  was  because  it  was  right  to  be  glad. 
Caius  could  not  unravel  this,  and  yet,  deep  within  him, 
he  knew  that  there  was  consistency  in  it.  Had  she  not 
said  that  love  in  itself  was  good  ?  it  must  be  good,  then, 
both  to  the  giver  and  receiver.     He  felt  a  certain  awe 

801 


jw», 


m\ 


m\ 


i-i 


202 


THE   MERMAID. 


M- 


ill 


at  finding  liis  own  poor  love  embmcod  in  such  u  doc- 
trine ;  lie  felt  for  the  first  time  how  gross  und  sellish, 
how  unworthy,  it  wiis. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  Mju'ch  ;  the  snow  was  melt- 
ing ;  the  ice  was  breaking ;  it  might  be  three  or  four 
weeks  before  ships  could  sail  in  the  gulf,  but  it  would 
not  be  longer.  There  was  no  sign  of  further  outbreak 
of  diphtheria  ui)on  the  island.  Caius  felt  the  time  of 
liis  going  home  to  be  near ;  he  was  not  glad  to  think 
of  leaving  his  prison  of  ice.  Two  distinct  elTorts  were 
made  at  this  time  to  entertain  him. 

O'Shea  made  an  expedition  to  the  island  of  the  pic- 
ture rocks,  and,  in  rough  kindliness,  insisted  upon  tak- 
ing Caius  with  him,  not  to  see  the  rocks — 0\Shea 
thought  little  of  them.  They  had  an  exciting  journey, 
rowing  between  the  ice-lloes  in  the  bay,  carrying  their 
boat  over  one  ice  fragment  and  then  another,  launch- 
ing it  each  time  into  a  sea  of  dangers.  They  spent  a 
couple  of  days  entertained  by  the  chief  num  of  this 
island,  and  came  back  again  at  the  same  delightful 
jeopardy  of  their  lives. 

After  this  Mr.  Pembroke  took  Caius  home  with  him, 
driving  again  over  the  sand-dune,  upon  which,  now 
that  the  drifts  had  almost  melted,  a  road  could  be  made. 
All  winter  the  dunes  had  been  absolutely  deserted,  im- 
passable by  reason  of  the  depth  of  snow.  It  would  seem 
that  even  the  devil  himself  must  have  left  their  valleys 
at  this  time,  or  have  hibernated.  The  chief  interest  to 
Caius  in  this  expedition  was  to  seek  the  hollow  where 
he  had  seen,  or  thowght  he  had  seen,  the  band  of  mys- 
terious men  to  which  O'Shea  introduced  him  ;  but  so 
changed  was  the  appearance  of  the  sand  by  reason  of 
the  streams  and  rivulets  of  melting  snow,  and  so  mo- 


ill 


HOPE   BORN   OF  SPKINU. 


2U3 


Ito 
[re 

is- 

ISO 

of 
lo- 


notonous  was  the  dime,  that  lie  grew  confused,  luid 
could  not  in  tlie  least  tell  where  the  place  had  been. 
IIo  paid  a  visit  to  Pembroke's  house,  and  to  the  inn 
kept  by  the  old  maids,  and  then  went  back  to  his  own 
little  wooden  doniicile  with  renewed  contentment  in  its 
quaint  appointments,  in  its  solitude,  but  above  all  in  its 
nearness  to  tluit  other  house  in  which  the  five  women 
lived  Lnuirded  by  the  nuistiffs. 

Caius  knew  well  enough  that  these  jdaiis  for  his 
amusement  had  been  instigated  by  Madame  Le  Maitre. 
She  was  keeping  out  of  liis  way,  except  that  now  and 
then  he  met  her  upon  the  roads  and  exchanged  with 
her  a  friendly  greeting. 

The  only  satisfaction  that  Chains  sought  for  himself 
at  this  time  was  an  occasional  visit  to  O'Shea's  house. 
All  winter  tliere  had  been  growing  upon  him  a  liking 
for  the  man's  wife,  although  the  words  that  he  ex- 
changed with  her  were  at  all  times  few.  Now  the  feel- 
ing that  he  and  she  were  friends  had  received  a  distinct 
increase.  It  was  a  long  time  since  Caius  had  put  to 
anyone  the  questions  which  his  mind  was  constantly 
asking  concerning  Madame  Le  Maitre.  Aj^art  from 
any  thought  of  talking  about  the  object  of  their  mutual 
regard,  it  was  a  comfort  to  him  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
O'Shea's  wife.  He  felt  sure  that  she  understood  her  mis- 
tress better  than  anyone  else  did,  and  he  also  suspected 
her  of  a  lively  sympathy  with  himself,  although  it  was 
not  probable  that  she  knew  more  concerning  his  rela- 
tion to  Josephine  Le  Maitre  than  merely  the  fact  that  it 
would  be  hard  for  anj  man  to  see  so  much  grace  and 
beauty  and  remain  insensible.  Caius  sat  by  this  wom- 
an's hearth,  and  whittled  tops  and  boats  for  her  chil- 
dren on  the  sunny  doorstep  when  the  days  grew  warm 
U 


f 


'A 


■     't 


^■If 


ill 


tls  i! 


204 


THK   MERMAID. 


;!i:' 


at  noon,  and  did  not  expect  uny  guerdon  for  doing  it 
excej)t  the  rest  that  he  found  in  tlie  j)roxin»ity  and  oc- 
cupation. Heward  came  to  liini,  however.  Tlie  woman 
eyed  liim  with  more  and  more  liindliness,  and  at  length 
slie  spoke. 

It  was  one  dav  towards  the  end  of  the  montli,  wlien 
the  last  film  of  snow  liad  evaporated  from  many  a  field 
and  slope,  and  the  vivid  green  of  grass  a])peared  for  the 
first  time  to  gladden  the  eyes,  although  many  an  ice- 
wreath  and  snowy  hollow  still  lay  between.  On  such  a 
day  the  sight  of  a  folded  head  of  saxifrage  from  which 
the  pearls  are  just  breaking  makes  the  heart  of  man 
bound  with  a  pleasure  tliat  has  certainly  no  rational 
cause  which  is  adequate. 

Cains  came  up  from  the  western  shore,  where  he 
had  been  watching  a  distant  ship  that  passed  on  tlie 
other  side  of  the  nearer  ice-floes,  and  which  said,  by 
no  other  signal  than  that  of  her  white  sails,  that  winter 
was  gone.  The  sea,  whose  rivers  and  lakes  among  the 
ice  had  of  late  looked  so  turbid  by  reason  of  frozen  par- 
ticles in  tlie  water,  was  clear  now  to  reflect  once  more 
the  blue  above  it,  and  the  ice-cakes  were  very  white  in 
the  sunshine.  Cains  turned  his  back  ujmn  this,  and 
came  up  a  stony  path  where  large  patches  of  the  hill 
were  green  ;  and  by  chance  he  came  upon  O'Shea's  wife, 
who  was  laying  out  linen  to  bleach  at  some  distance 
from  her  own  house.  Close  to  her  Cains  saw  the  ledge  of 
rock  on  which  the  first  flowers  of  the  year  were  budding, 
and  straightway  fell  in  love  with  them.  Knowing  that 
their  plants  would  flourish  indoors  as  well  as  out,  he 
stooped  to  lift  the  large  cakes  of  moss  in  which  their 
roots  were  set.  The  woman,  who  wore  a  small  pink 
shawl  tied  over  her  head  and  shoulders,  came  near  to 


llUi'K    UUKN    OF   Sl'ULNU. 


2U5 


i! 


wliere  he  was  stoo|)in«j,  and  made  no  i)refa('e,  but 
said : 

"  He's}  dead,  sir;  or  if  he  isn't,  and  if  he  shoidd  come 
haek,  O'Shea  will  kill  him!" 

Cains  did  not  need  to  ask  of  whom  she  spoke. 

"  Why  V  "  he  asked.  "  Why  should  O'Shea  want  to 
kill  him?" 

"  It  would  kill  her,  sir,  if  he  eame  back  to  her.  She 
couldn't  abidediim  no  ways,  and  O'Shea  says  it's  as  ^'ood 
one  murder  should  be  done  as  another,  and  if  he  was 
hung  for  it  he  wouldn't  mind.  U'Shea's  the  sort  of 
man  that  would  keep  his  word.  He'd  just  feel  it  was  a 
kind  of  interesting  thing  to  do,  and  he  worships  her  to 
that  extent.  But  1  feel  sure,  sir,  that  Le  Maitre  is  dead, 
(lod  would  not  be  so  unkind  as  to  have  me  and  the 
children  bereft  in  that  way." 

Her  simple  belief  in  her  husband's  power  to  settle 
the  matter  was  shocking  to  Cains,  because  he  felt  that 
she  ])robably  knew  her  husband  perfectly. 

"  But  why,"  said  he  again,  "  would  it  kill  her  if  he 
came  back?" 

"  Well,  what  sort  of  a  decent  man  is  it  that  would 
have  stayed  away  from  her  all  these  years,  poor  lamb  ? 
Why,  sir,  she  wasn't  but  a  child  at  the  convent  when  her 
father  had  them  married,  and  she  back  to  school,  and 
he  away  to  his  ship,  and  never  come  to  see  her  since." 

Cains  turned  as  he  knelt  upon  the  grass,  and,  hold- 
ing the  emerald  moss  and  saxifrage  plants  in  liis  hand, 
looked  up  at  her.  "  He  went  away  two  years  ago,"  he 
said,  repeating  defiantly  what  he  believed  he  had  heard. 

"  He  went  away  six  years  ago,"  corrected  she  ;  "  but 
it's  two  years  now  since  aught  was  heard  of  him,  and 
his  ship  went  down,  sir,  coming  back  from  Afriky — that 


k 

ill 


2Ut) 


THE   MERMAID. 


1   »■ 
I 


9m  t^ 


•1 


"we  know ;  but  word  cume  tliiit  tlie  crew  were  saved,  but 
never  a  word  from  liini,  nor  u  word  of  him,  since." 

"Did  slio " — liis  throiit  would  liardly  fninie  tlie 
words — 11  nervous  spasm  impt  dcd  tlieni  ;  yet  he  could 
not  but  ask — "  did  she  care  for  liim  V  " 

"  Oh  well,  sir,  as  to  that,  he  was  a  beautiful-looking 
man,  and  she  but  a  child  ;  but  when  she  came  to  lier- 
self  she  wrote  aiul  asked  him  never  to  come  back  ;  she 
told  nie  so  ;  and  he  never  did." 

"  Well,  that  at  least  was  civil  of  him."  Caius  spoke 
in  full  earnest. 

"  No,  sir ;  he's  not  civil ;  he's  a  beast  of  a  man. 
There's  no  sort  of  low  tnck  that  he  hasn't  done,  onlv  it 
can't  be  proved  against  him  ;  for  he's  the  sort  of  beast 
that  is  a  snake ;  he  only  married  madame  for  the  money 
he'll  get  with  her.  It  was  when  .she  learned  that  that  she 
wrote  to  him  not  to  come  back  ;  but  he  never  sent  an  hon- 
est word  to  say  whether  he'd  stay  away  or  not.  She  knows 
what  he  is,  sir,  for  folks  that  he'd  clieated  and  lied  to  come 
to  her  to  complain.  Young  as  she  is,  tliere's  white 
threads  in  her  hair,  just  to  think  that  he  might  come 
back  at  any  time.  It's  making  an  old  v/oman  of  her 
since  she's  come  of  an  age  to  think  ;  and  she  the  merri- 
est, blithest  creature  that  ever  was.  When  she  first 
came  out  of  the  convent,  to  see  her  dance  and  sing  was 
a  sight  to  make  old  eves  voung." 

"  Yes,"  said  Caius  eagerly,  "  I  know  it  was — I  am 
sure  it  was." 

"  Oh,  but  you  never  saw  her,  sir,  till  the  shadow  had 
come  on  her." 

''  Do  you  know  when  it  was  I  first  saw  her  ?  "  said 
Caius,  looking  down  at  the  grass. 

"  She  told  me  'twas  when  she  went  to  Prince  Ed- 


ril 


nP  «^ 


d,  but 


('    the 

L'OUUI 

ookiiig 

to  Ikt- 

k;  she 

nOPE   BORN   OF  SPRING. 


5  spoke 

a  man. 
,  only  it 
A  beast 
?,  money 
that  she 
;  an  hon- 
e  knows 
o  come 
white 
t  come 
of  her 
merri- 
le    first 
ng  was 

3—1  am 

low  had 
?"  said 


207 


ward's  Land,  the  time  slie  went  to  see  the  wife  of  lier 
father's  brother.  'Twas  the  one  time  that  0\Shoa  let 
her  out  of  his  sight ;  but  no  one  knew  where  she  was,  so 
if  the  Captain  had  come  at  that  time  he  couldn't  have 
found  her  without  comiiiii:  to  O'Shoa  first.  And  tlio 
other  time  that  O'Shea  let  her  go  was  the  first  winter 
she  came  here,  for  he  knew  no  one  could  come  at  the 
islands  for  tlu^  snow,  aiul  we  followed  by  the  first  ship 


(T. 


ly 


in  sprin^. 

"  Couldn't  she  get  a  separation  ?  " 

"  O'Shea  says  the  law  is  that  way  made  that  she 
couldn't." 

"  If  she  changed  her  name  and  went  away  some- 
where  "  Caius  spoke  thoughtfully. 

"  And  that's  what  O'Shea  has  been  at  her  to  do,  for 
at  least  it  would  give  her  peace  ;  but  she  says,  no,  she'll 
do  what's  open  and  honest,  and  God  will  take  care  of 
her.  And  I'm  sure  I  hope  lie  will.  But  it's  hard,  sir, 
to  see  a  young  thing,  so  happy  by  nature  as  her,  taking 
comfort  in  nothing  but  prayers  and  hymns  and  good 
works,  so  young  as  she  is;  it's  enough  to  make  the 
angels  themselves  ha\e  tears  in  their  eyes  to  see  it." 

At  this  the  woman  was  wiping  her  own  eyes  ;  and, 
making  soft  sniffing  sounds  of  uncultivated  grirf,  siie 
went  back  to  her  work  of  strewing  wet  garments  upon 
the  grass. 

Caius  felt  that  O'Shea's  wife  had  read  the  mind  of 
the  angels  aright. 


?i 


*■ 

-i 


i 


ice 


Ed- 


r^ 


II!  11 


I- 


iff! 


I  m' 


CHAPTER   V. 

TO   THE   niGHEU   COURT. 

If  Cains,  as  he  went  his  way  carrying  the  moss  and 
budding  flowers,  could  have  felt  convinced  with 
O'Shea's  wife  that  Le  Maitre  was  dead,  he  would 
have  been  a  much  happier  man.  He  could  not  admit 
the  woman's  logic.  Still,  he  was  far  happier  than  he 
had  been  an  hour  before.  Le  Maitre  might  be  dead. 
Josephine  did  not  love  Le  Maitre.  He  felt  that  now, 
at  least,  he  understood  her  life. 

Having  the  flowers,  the  very  first  darlings  of  the 
spring,  in  his  hand,  he  went,  in  the  impulse  of  the 
new  sympathy,  and  knocked  at  her  house  door.  He 
carried  his  burden  of  moss,  earth,  moisture,  and  little 
gray  scaly  insects  that,  having  been  disturbed,  crawled 
in  and  out  of  it,  boldly  into  the  room,  whose  walls 
were  still  decorated  with  the  faded  garlands  of  the 
previous  autumn. 

"  Let  me  talk  to  you,"  said  Caius. 

The  lady  and  the  one  young  girl  who  happened  to 
be  with  her  had  bestirred  themselves  to  receive  his  gift. 
Making  a  platter  serve  as  the  rock-ledge  from  which 
the  living  things  had  been  disturbed,  they  set  them 
in  the  window  to  grow  and  unfold  the  more  quickly. 
They  had  brought  him  a  bowl  also  in  which  to  wash 

208 


^^  ^I'y 


TO  THE  HIGHER  COURT. 


209 


his  hands,  and  then  it  was  that  he  looked  at  the  lady 
of  the  house  and  made  his  request. 

He  hardly  thought  she  would  grant  it ;  he  felt 
almost  breathless  with  his  own  hardiiiood  when  he 
saw  her  dismiss  the  girl  and  sit  before  him  to  hear 
what  he  might  bave  to  say.  He  knew  then  that  had 
he  asked  her  to  talk  to  him  he  would  have  translated 
the  desire  of  his  heart  far  better. 

"  O'Shea's  wife  has  been  talking  to  me,"  he  said. 

"About  mc?" 

"  I  hope  you  will  forgive  us.  I  think  she  could  not 
help  speaking,  and  I  could  not  help  listening." 

"What  did  she  say  V" 

It  was  the  absolutely  childlike  directness  of  her 
thoughts  and  words  that  always  seemed  to  Caius  to  be 
the  thing  that  put  the  greatest  distance  between 
them. 

"  I  could  not  tell  you  what  she  said  ;  I  would  not 

dare  to  repeat  it  to   you,  and  perhaps  she  would  not 

,  wish  you  to  know ;  but  you  know  she  is  loyal  to  you, 

and  what  I  can  tell  you  is,  that  I    understand  better 

now  what  your  life  is — what  it  has  been." 

Then  he  held  out  his  hands  with  an  impulsive 
gesture  towards  her.  The  large  table  was  between 
them ;  it  was  only  a  gesture,  and  he  let  his  hands  lie 
on  the  table.  "  Let  me  be  your  friend  ;  you  may 
trust  me,"  he  said.  "  I  am  only  a  very  ordinary  man  ; 
but  still,  the  best  friendship  I  have  I  offer.  You  need 
not  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you."  She  said  it  with  perfect 
tranquillity. 

He  did  not  like  her  answer. 

"  Are   we  friends,   then  ?  "  he  asked,  and  tried  to 


If 


210 


THE  MERMAID. 


1  i 


m 


smile,  though  he  felt  that  some  unruly  nerve  was 
painting  the  heaviness  of  his  heart  in  his  face. 

"How  do  you  mean  it?     0'8hea  and  his  wife  are 

my  friends,  each  of  them  in  a  very  different  way " 

She  was  going  on,  hut  he  interrupted  : 

"  They  are  your  friends  because  they  would  die  to 
serve  you  ;  but  liave  you  never  had  friends  who  were 
your  equals  in  education  and  intelligence?"  He  was 
speaking  hastily,  using  random  words  to  suggest  that 
more  could  be  had  out  of  such  a  relation  than  faithful 
service. 

"  Are  you  my  equal  in  intelligence  and  education?" 
she  asked  appositely,  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

He  had  time  just  for  a  momentary  flash  of  self- 
wonder  that  he  should  so  love  a  woman  who,  when 
she  did  not  keep  him  at  some  far  distance,  laughed  at 
him  openly.  He  stammered  a  moment,  then  smiled, 
for  he  could  not  help  it. 

"  I  would  not  care  to  claim  that  for  myself,"  he 
said. 

'*  Rather,"  she  suggested,  "  let  us  frankly  admit  that 
you  are  the  superior  in  both." 

He  was  sitting  at  the  table,  his  elb(  ws  upon  it,  and 
now  he  covered  his  face  with  his  heads,  half  in  real, 
half  in  mock,  despair  : 

"  What  can  I  do  or  sav  ? "  he  groaned.  "  What 
have  I  done  that  vou  will  not  answer  the  honest 
meaning  you  can  understand  in  spite  of  my  clumsy 
words  ?  " 

Then  he  had  to  look  at  her  because  she  did  not 
answer,  and  when  he  saw  that  she  was  still  ready  to 
laugh,  he  laughed,  too. 

"  Have  you  never  ceased  to  despise  me  because  1 


TO  TRE   niGIlER  COURT. 


211 


kit 

>st 

sy 

ot 
to 

I 


could  not  swim?  I  can  swim  now,  I  assure  von.  I 
have  studied  the  art.  I  couhl  even  show  you  a  prize 
that  I  took  in  a  race,  if  that  wonkl  win  your  respect." 

"  I  am  ghid  you  took  the  prize." 

"  I  liave  not  yet  learned  the  magic  with  which  mer- 
maids move." 

"  Xo,  and  you  have  not  heard  any  excuse  for  the 
boldness  of  that  play  yet.  And  I  was  almost  the 
cause  of  your  deatli.  Ah  !  how  frightened  I  was  that 
night — of  you  and  for  you  !  And  again  when  I  went 
to  see  Mr.  Pembroke  before  the  snow  came,  and  the 
storm  came  on  and  I  was  obliged  to  travel  with  you  in 
O'Shea's  great-coat — tliat  again  cannot  seem  nice  to 
you  when  you  tliink  of  it.  Why  do  you  like  what 
apjiears  so  strange?  You  came  here  to  do  a  noble 
work,  and  you  have  done  it  nobly.  Why  not  go  home 
now,  and  be  rid  of  such  a  suspicious  character  as  I 
have  shown  myself  to  be?  Wherever  you  go,  our 
pravers  and  our  blessinofs  will  follow  von." 

Caius  looked  down  at  the  common  deal  board. 
There  were  dents  and  marks  upon  it  that  spoke  of  con- 
stant household  work.     At  length  he  said  : 

"  There  is  one  reason  for  going  that  would  seem  to 
meenous^h:  if  vou  will  tell  me  that  vou  neither  want 
nor  need  my  companionship  or  help  in  any  way;  but  if 
you  cannot  tell  me  that " 

"  Want,"  she  said  very  sadly.  "  Ah,  do  you  think  I 
have  no  heart,  no  mind  that  likes  to  talk  its  thoughts, 
no  sympathies?  I  think  that  if  aufjoae — man,  woman, 
or  child — were  to  come  to  me  from  out  the  big  world, 
where  people  have  such  thoughts  and  feelings  jis  I  have, 
and  offer  to  talk  to  me,  I  could  not  do  anything  else 
than  desire  their  companionship.     Do  you  think  that  I 


/!!;' 


'Ill 


212 


THE  MERMAID. 


am  hard-heartcfl  ?  I  am  so  lonely  that  the  affection 
even  of  a  dog  or  a  bird  would  be  a  temptation  to  me,  if 
it  was  a  thing  tliat  1  dared  not  accept,  because  it  would 
make  me  weaker  to  live  the  life  that  is  right.  That  is 
the  way  we  must  tell  what  is  right  or  wrong." 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  gathered  comfort  from  the 
fj'ct  that,  pausi:''g  here,  without  adequate  reason  that 
was  apparent,  she  took  for  granted  that  the  friend- 
ship he  offered  would  be  a  source  of  weakness  to  her. 

She  never  stooped  to  try  to  apjiear  reasonable.  As 
she  had  been  speaking,  a  new  look  had  been  coming  out 
of  the  habitual  calmness  of  her  face,  and  now,  in  the 
pause,  the  calm  went  suddenly,  and  there  was  a  flash  of 
fire  in  her  eves  that  he  had  never  seen  there  before : 

"If  I  were  starving,  would  you  come  and  offer  me 
bread  that  you  knew  I  ought  not  to  eat?  It  would  be 
cruel."  She  rose  up  suddenlv,  and  he  stood  before  her. 
"  It  is  cruel  of  you  to  tantalize  me  with  thoughts  of 
happiness  because  you  know  I  must  want  it  so  much. 
I  could  not  live  and  not  want  it.  Go !  you  are  doing  a 
cowardly  thing.  You  are  doing  what  the  devil  did 
when  our  Lord  was  in  the  wilderness.  But  He  did  not 
need  the  bread  He  was  asked  to  take,  and  I  do  not  need 
your  friendship.     Go !  " 

She  held  out  the  hand — the  hand  that  had  so  often 
beckoned  to  him  in  play — and  pointed  hira  to  the  door. 
He  knew  that  he  was  standing  before  a  woman  who  had 
been  irritated  by  inward  pain  into  a  sudden  gust  of 
anger,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  not  afraid  of 
■ler.  In  losing  her  self-control  she  had  lost  her  control 
of  him. 

"Josephine,"  he  cried,  "tell  me  about  this  man,  Lo 
Maitre !     He  has  no  right  over  you.     Why  do    you 


tion 
e,  if 
ould 
at  is 

the 
that 
lend- 
er. 

As 

or  out 

o 

n  the 
ish  of 

I  • 

/    a 

er  me 
lid  be 
e  her. 
nts  of 
nucli. 
ling  a 
I   did 
d  not 
need 

often 
door. 
10  had 
ist  of 
lid  of 
)ntrol 


m,  Le 


TO  THE  niGHER  COURT. 


213 


you 


think  he  is  not  dead?  At  least,  tell  me  what  you 
know." 

It  seemed  that,  in  the  confusion  of  conflicting  emo- 
tions, she  hardly  wondered  why  he  liad  not  ol)eyed  lier. 

"Oh,  he  is  not  dead  I "  Slie  spoke  witli  bitterness. 
"I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  so.  lie  only  leavci5  me 
in  suspense  that  he  may  make  me  the  more  miserable.'" 
And  then,  as  if  realizing  what  she  had  said,  she  lifted 
her  head  again  proudly.  "  But  remember  it  is  nothing 
to  you  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead." 

"  Nothing  to  me  to  know  that  you  would  be  freed 
from  this  horrible  slavery !  It  is  not  of  my  own  gain, 
but  of  yours,  I  am  thinking." 

He  knew  that  what  he  had  said  was  not  wholly  true, 
yet,  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  he  knew  that  to  embody 
in  words  the  best  that  might  be  was  to  give  himself  the 
best  chance  of  realizing  it;  and  he  did  not  believe  now 
that  her  fierce  assertion  of  indifference  for  him  was  true 
either,  but  his  best  self  applauded  her  for  it.  For  a 
minute  he  could  not  tell  what  Josephine  would  do 
next.  She  stood  looking  at  him  helplessly;  it  seemed 
as  though  her  subsiding  anger  had  left  a  fear  of  iierself 
in  its  place.  But  what  he  dreaded  most  was  that  her 
composure  should  return. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  ask  be- 
cause it  is  right  that  I  should  know.  Can  you  not  get 
rid  of  this  bond  of  marriage  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  "  that  the  good  God  and 
the  Holy  Virgin  would  desire  me  to  put  myself — my 
life — all  that  is  sacred — into  courts  and  newspapers? 
Do  you  think  the  holy  Mother  oi  God — looking  down 
upon  me,  her  child — wants  me  to  get  out  of  trouble  in 
that  way?"    Josephine  had  asked  the  question  first  in 


;'^ 


1 


llR! 


I; 

illl 


214 


THE  MERMAID. 


distress ;  then,  with  a  face  of  peerless  scorn,  she  seemed 
to  put  some  horrid  scene  from  before  her  with  her  hand. 
"  The  dear  God  woidd  rather  I  wouhl  drown  myself," 
she  said  ;  "  it  would  at  least  be  " — she  hesitated  for  a 
word,  as  if  at  a  loss  in  her  English — "  at  least  be 
cleaner." 

She  had  no  sooner  finished  that  speech  than  the 
scorn  died  out  of  her  face  : 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  cried  repentant ;  "  the  men  and 
women  who  are  driven  to  seek  such  redress — I — I  truly 
pity  them — but  for  me — it  would  not  be  any  use  even 
if  it  were  right.  O'Shea  says  it  would  be  no  use,  and 
he  knows.  1  don't  think  I  would  do  it  if  I  could  ;  but 
I  could  not  if  I  would." 

"Surely  he  is  dead,"  pleaded  Caius.  "How  can 
you  live  if  you  do  not  believe  that?" 

She  came  a  little  nearer  to  him,  making  the  ex- 
planation with  child-like  earnestness : 

"  You  see,  I  have  talked  to  God  and  to  the  holy 
Mother  about  this.  I  know  they  have  heard  my  prayers 
and  seen  my  tears,  and  will  do  what  is  good  for  me.  I 
ask  God  alwavs  that  Le  Maitre  mav  not  come  back  to 
me,  so  now  I  know  that  if"  (a  gasping  sigh  retarded 
for  a  moment  the  breath  that  came  and  went  in  her 
gentle  bosom)  "  if  he  does  come  back  it  will  be  God's 
will.  Who  am  I  that  I  should  know  best?  Shall  I 
choose  to  be  what  you  call  a  '  missionary '  to  the  poor 
and  sick — and  refuse  God's  will  ?  God  can  put  an  end 
to  my  marriage  if  He  will ;  until  He  does,  I  will  do  my 
duty  to  my  husband :  I  will  till  the  land  that  he  left 
idle ;  I  will  honour  the  name  he  gave  me.  I  dare  not 
do  anything  except  what  is  very,  very  right,  because  I 
have  appealed  to  the  Court  of  Heaven.     You  asked  me 


TO  THE   HIGHER  COURT. 


215 


just  now  if  I  did  not  wuiit  and  need  friendship ;  it  does 
not  matter  lit  all  what  1  want,  and  whatever  God  does 
not  give  me  you  may  be  sure  1  do  not  need." 

lie  knew  tliat  the  peaee  he  dreaded  had  conio  bael: 
to  her.  She  had  gone  baek  to  tlie  memory  of  her 
strength.  Xow  he  obeyed  the  command  she  had  given 
before,  and  went  out. 


's 

I 

(or 

lid 


?ft 
lot 


Hh 


i 

U^ 

■  '' 

-<  1* 

III 

;    « 

■ 

!| 

|| 

he 


ciiAPTEij  vr. 

"TIIK    NIGHT   IS    DARK." 

Caius  went  home  to  his  house.  Inconsistency  is 
tlie  luill-mark  of  real  in  distinction  from  unreal  life. 
A  note  of  happy  music  was  sounding  in  his  heart. 
The  brii^ht  spring  evening  seemed  all  full  of  joy.  He 
saw  a  flock  of  gannets  stringing  out  in  long  line 
against  the  red  evening  sky,  and  knew  that  all  the 
feathered  population  of  the  rocks  was  returning  to  its 
summer  home.  Something  more  than  the  mere  joy 
of  the  season  was  making  him  glad  ;  he  hardly  knew 
what  it  was,  for  it  appeared  to  him  that  circumstances 
were  untoward. 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  reasoned  that  there  was  no 
cause  for  joy  in  the  belief  that  Josephine  took  delight 
in  his  society;  that  delight  would  only  make  her  lot 
the  harder,  and  make  for  him  the  greater  grievance. 
He  mi2:ht  as  well  have  reasoned  with  himself  that  there 
was  no  cause  for  joy  in  the  fact  of  the  spring ;  he  was 
so  created  that  such  things  made  up  the  bliss  of  life  to 
him. 

Caius  did  not  himself  think  that  Josephine  owed 
any  duty  to  La  Maitre ;  he  could  only  hope,  and  try 
to  believe,  that  the  man  was  dead.  Reason,  common- 
sense,  appeared   to  him  to  do  away  with  what  slight 

216 


"THE  NIUIIT  IS  DAKK." 


217 


];es 


lot 
le. 
ire 

I'as 
I  to 

eel 

In- 

ht 


moral  or  religious  obligation  was  involved  in  such  a 
marriage;  yet  he  was  quite  sure  of  one  thing — tliat 
this  young  wife,  left  without  friend  or  protector,  would 
have  been  upon  a  very  mueh  lower  level  if  she  had 
thought  in  the  manner  as  he  did.  lie  knew  now  tliat 
from  the  first  dav  he  had  seen  her  the  charm  of  her 
face  had  been  that  he  read  in  it  a  character  that  was 
not  onlv  whollv  diiferent  to,  but  nobler  than,  his  own. 
lie  reflected  now  that  he  should  not  love  her  at  all  if 
she  took  a  stand  less  high  in  its  sweet  unreasonable- 
ness, and  his  reason  for  this  was  simply  that,  had  she 
done  otherwise,  she  would  not  have  been  Josephine. 

The  thought  that  Josephine  was  what  she  was 
intoxicated  him  ;  all  the  next  day  time  and  eternity 
seemed  glorious  to  him.  The  islands  were  still  ringed 
with  the  pearly  ring  of  ice-floes,  and  for  one  brief 
spring  day,  for  this  lover,  it  was  enough  to  be  yet  im- 
prisoned in  the  same  bit  of  green  earth  with  his  lady, 
to  think  of  all  tlie  noble  things  she  had  said  and  done, 
and,  by  her  influence,  to  see  new  vistas  opening  into 
eternity  in  which  they  two  walked  together.  There 
was  even  some  self-gratulation  that  he  had  attained  to 
faith  in  Heaven.  He  was  one  of  those  people  who 
always  suppose  that  they  would  be  glad  to  have  faith 
if  they  could.  It  was  not  faith,  however,  that  had 
come  to  him,  only  a  refining  and  quickening  of  his 
imagination. 

Quick  upon  the  heels  of  these  high  dreams  came 
their  test,  for  life  is  not  a  dream. 

Between  the  Magdalen  Islands  and  the  mainland, 
besides  the  many  stray  schooners  that  came  and  went, 
there  were  two  lines  of  regular  communication — one 
was  by  a  sailing  vessel  which  carried  freight  regularly  to 


1 


i 

i 

i'l 


!i 


'2lS 


THE  MERMAID. 


> 


ili 


iH 


and  from  the  i)ort  of  Guspo  ;  tliu  otlicr  was  by  u  .small 
j»afk('t  stiamtT  that  oiicu  a  wt-uk  came  from  Nova 
Scotia  and  Prince  Kd ward's  Island,  and  returned  by 
the  same  route.  It  was  bv  this  steamer,  on  her  lirst 
a}»pearance,  that  Caius  oui^ht  reasonably  to  return  to 
his  home.  She  would  come  as  soon  as  the  ice  di- 
minished ;  she  would  brin;^^  him  news,  withheld  for 
four  months,  of  how  his  parents  had  fared  in  his 
absence.  Caius  had  not  yet  decided  that  he  would  go 
liome  by  the  first  trip ;  the  thought  of  leaving,  when  it 
forced  itself  upon  him,  was  very  })ainful.  This  steamer 
was  the  first  arrival  ex})ected,  and  the  islanders,  eager 
for  variety  and  nuiils,  looked  excitedly  to  see  the  ice 
melt  or  be  drifted  away.  Caius  looked  at  the  ice 
ring  with  more  intense  longing,  but  his  longing  was 
that  it  should  renuiin.  J  lis  wishes,  like  prayers,  be- 
sought the  cold  winds  and  frosty  lughts  to  conserve  it 
for  him. 

It  so  happened  that  the  (Jaspe  schooner  arrived 
before  the  southern  packet,  and  lay  outside  of  the  ice, 
waiting  until  she  could  nud\e  her  way  through.  So 
welcome  was  the  sight  that  the  islanders  gathered  upon 
the  shores  of  the  bay  just  for  the  pleasure  of  looking  at 
her  as  she  lay  without  the  harbour.  Caius  looked  at 
her,  too,  and  with  comparative  indLlTerence,  for  he  re- 
joiced tliat  he  was  still  in  prison. 

Upon  tliat  day  the  night  fell  jnst  as  it  falls  upon  all 
days;  but  at  midniglit  Caius  had  a  visitor.  O'Shea 
came  to  him  in  the  darkness. 

Caius  was  awakened  from  sound  sleep  by  a  muffled 
thumping  at  his  door  that  was  calculated  to  disturb 
him  without  carrying  sharp  sound  into  the  surrounding 
air.     His  first  idea  was  that  some  drunken  fellow  had 


"THE   NIGHT  IS   DARK." 


211) 


ved 

ice, 
So 

ipon 

gat 
at 
re; 

nail 
)hea 

led 
Lurb 
ling 
Iliad 


bluiulercd  against  his  wall  by  inistakc.  As  the  sounds 
continued,  and  the  full  strangciu'ss  of  tlie  event,  in  tluit 
lonely  plaee,  entered  his  waking  brain,  he  arose  with  a 
certain  trepidation  akin  to  tluit  which  one  feels  at  the 
thouglit  of  supernatural  visitors,  a  feeliug  tliat  was  per- 
haps the  result  of  some  influence  from  the  spirit  of  the 
nnin  outside  the  door;  for  when  he  opened  it,  and  held 
his  candle  to  O'Sliea's  face,  he  saw  a  look  there  that 
made  him  know  certainly  tluit  something  was  wrong. 

O'Shea  came  in  and  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and 
went  into  the  inner  room  aiul  sat  down  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Caius  followed,  holding  the  candle,  and  in- 
S2)ected  him  again. 

"Sit  down,  man."  O'Shea  made  an  impatient  ges- 
ture at  the  light,  "(ret  into  bed,  if  yc  will ;  there's  no 
hurry  that  I  know  of." 

Caius  stood  still,  looking  at  the  farmer,  and  such 
nervousness  had  come  npon  him  that  he  was  almost 
trembling  with  fear,  witbout  the  slightest  notion  as  yet 
of  what  he  feared. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven "  he  began. 

"  Yes,  Heaven  !"  O'Shea  spoke  with  hard,  medita- 
tive inquiry.  "  It's  Heaven  she  trnsts  in.  What's 
Heaven  going  to  do  for  her,  I'd  loike  to  know  V  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  The  question  now  was  hoarse  and 
breathless. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  yon  what  it  is  if  ye'll  give  me  time  " 
— the  tone  was  sarcastic — "  and  you  needn't  spoil  yer 
beauty  by  catching  yer  death  of  cold.  'Tain't  nicessary, 
that  I  know  of.  There's  things  that  are  nicessary ; , 
there's  things  that  will  be  nicessary  in  the  next  few 
days ;  but  that  ain't." 

For  the  first  time  Caius  did  not  resent  the  caustic 
15 


il)i 


m 


^  I 


I 


'ii  ' 


!* 


220 


THE   MERMAID. 


manner.  Its  sharpness  was  turned  now  towards  an  im- 
pending fate,  and  to  Cains  0\Shea  liad  conie  as  to  a 
friend  in  need.  Meclianieally  lie  sat  in  the  middle  of 
the  small  bed,  and  huddled  its  blankets  about  him. 
The  burly  farmer,  in  fur  co  it  and  cap,  sat  in  wooden- 
like  stillness ;  but  Caius  was  like  a  man  in  a  fever,  rest- 
less ii\  his  suspense.  The  candle,  which  he  had  put 
upon  the  floor,  cast  up  a  yellow  light  on  all  the  scant 
furniture,  on  the  two  men  as  they  thus  talked  to  each 
other,  with  pale,  tense  faces,  and  threw  distorted  shad- 
ows high  up  on  the  wooden  walls. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  relief  to  O'Shea  to  torture  Caius 
some  time  with  this  suspense.  At  last  he  said  :  "lie's 
in  the  schooner." 

"  Le  Maitre?     How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  ye  how  I  know.  I  told  ye  there  was 
no  hurrv." 

If  he  was  long  now  in  speaking.  Chains  did  not  know 
it.  Upon  his  brain  crowded  thoughts  and  imagina- 
tions :  wild  plans  for  saving  the  woman  he  loved  ;  wild, 
unholy  desires  of  revenge ;  and  a  wild  vision  of  misery 
in  the  background  as  yet — a  foreboding  that  the  end 
might  be  submission  to  the  worst  pains  of  impotent  de- 
spair. 

O'Shea  had  taken  out  a  piece  of  paper,  but  did  not 
open  it. 

'"Tain't  an  hour  back  I  got  this.  The  ski{)per  of 
the  schooner  and  me  know  each  other.  He's  been 
boiind  over  by  me  to  let  me  know  if  that  man  ever  set 
fcot  in  his  ship  to  come  to  this  place,  and  he's  managed 
to  get  a  lad  off  his  ship  in  the  noight,  and  across  the 
ice,  and  he  brought  me  this.  Le  Maitre,  he's  drunk, 
lyin'  in   his  bunk ;   that's  the  way  he's  preparing  to 


n 


"TIIK   NKfllT   IS   DARK." 


221 


now 
ina- 

ild, 
;ery 
end 

de- 


)cen 
set 

igcd 
the 

Milk, 
to 


come  ashore.  It  niav  be  one  dav,  it  niav  be  two,  afore 
the  schooner  can  get  in.  J^e  Maitre  he  won't  get  off  it 
till  it's  in  tir  liarbour.  I  gi;ess  tiiat's  about  all  there  is 
to  tell."  O'Shea  added  this  with  grim  abstinence  from 
fiercer  comment. 

"  Does  she  know  ?  "  Caius'  throat  hardly  gave  voice 
to  the  words. 

"  Xo,  she  don't ;  and  I  don't  know  who  is  to  tell  her. 
I  can't.  1  can  do  most  thii;gs."  lie  looked  up  round 
the  walls  and  ceiling,  as  if  hunting  in  his  mind  for 
other  thini:rs  he  could  not  do.  ''  I'll  not  do  that. 
'Tain't  in  my  line.  My  wife  is  adown  on  her  knees, 
mixing  up  pr.vyers  and  crying  at  a  great  rate;  and 
says  I  to  her,  '  You've  been  a-praying  about  this  sonje 
years  back ;  I'd  loike  to  know  what  gootl  it's  done. 
Get  up  and  tell  madame  the  news ; '  and  says  she  that 
she  couldn't,  and  she  says  that  in  the  morning  you're 
to  tell  her."  0\Shea  set  his  face  in  grim  deliauce  of 
any  sentiment  of  pity  for  Caius  that  might  liave  sug- 
gested itself. 

Caius  said  nothing;  but  in  a  minute,  grasping  at  the 
one  straw  of  hope  which  he  saw,  "  What  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

O'Shea  smoothed  out  the  letter  he  held. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  speak  so  quick ;  it's  just  that 
there  I  tliouiifht  we  miij^ht  have  our  considerations 
upon.  I'm  not  above  asking  advoice  of  a  gintleman  of 
the  world  like  yerself ;  I'm  not  above  giving  advoice, 
neither." 

He  sat  looking  vacantly  before  him  with  a  grim 
smile  upon  his  face.  Caius  saw  that  his  mind  was 
made  up. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  again. 


u 


i 


222 


'HE  MERMAID. 


it    11 


w  I 


At  the  same  moment  came  the  sharp  consciousness 
upon  him  that  he  himself  was  a  murderer,  tliat  lie 
wanted  to  have  Le  Maitre  murdered,  that  his  question 
meant  that  he  was  eager  to  be  made  privy  to  the  plot, 
willing  to  abet  it.  Yet  he  did  not  feel  wicked  at  all ; 
before  his  eyes  was  the  face  of  Josephine  lying  asleep, 
unconscious  and  peaceful.  He  felt  that  he  fought  in  a 
cause  in  which  a  saint  might  fight. 

"  What  I  may  or  may  not  do,"  said  O'Shea,  "  is 
neither  here  nor  there  just  now.  The  first  thing  is, 
what  you're  going  to  do.  The  schooner's  out  there  to 
the  north-east ;  the  boat  that's  been  used  for  the  sealing 
is  over  here  to  the  south-west ;  now,  there  ain't  no  sinse, 
that  I  know  of,  in  being  uncomfortable  when  it  can  be 
helped,  or  in  putting  ourselves  about  for  a  brute  of  a 
man  who  ain't  worth  it.  It's  plain  enough  what's  the 
easy  thing  to  do.  To-morrow  morning  ye'll  make  out 
that  ye  can't  abide  no  longer  staying  in  this  dull  hole, 
and  offer  the  skipper  of  one  of  them  sealing-boats  fifty 
dollars  to  have  the  boat  across  the  ice  and  take  you  to 
Souris.  Then  ye  will  go  up  and  talk  plain  common-sinse 
to  madame,  and  tell  her  to  put  on  her  man's  top-coat 
she's  worn  before,  and  skip  out  of  this  dirty  fellow's 
clutches.  There  ain't  nothing  like  being  scared  out  of 
their  wits  for  making  women  reasonable — it's  about  the 
only  time  they  have  their  sinses,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"  If  she  won't  come,  what  then  ?  "  Caius  demanded 
hastily. 

"  My  woife  says  that  if  ye're  not  more  of  a  fool  than 
we  take  ye  for,  she'll  go." 

There  was  something  in  the  mechanical  repetition  of 
what  his  wife  had  said  that  made  Caius  suspect. 

"  You  don't  think  she'll  go?" 


"THE  NIGHT   IS  DARK." 


223 


* . , 


Pa 

fty 

to 


of 
the 


Uan 
of 


O'Shea  did  not  answer. 

"  That  is  what  you'll  do,  any  way,"  he  said  ;  "  and 
ye'll  do  it  the  best  way  ye  know  how." 

He  sat  upon  the  bed  some  time  longer,  wrapped  in 
grim  reserve.  The  candle  guttered,  flared,  burned  itself 
out.  The  two  men  were  together  in  the  dark.  Caius 
believed  that  if  the  tirst  expedient  failed,  and  he  felt  it 
could  not  but  fail,  murder  was  their  only  resource 
against  what  seemed  to  them  intolerable  evil. 

O'Shea  got  up. 

"  Perhaps  ye  think  the  gintleman  that  is  coming  has 
redeeming  features  about  him  ?  "  A  fine  edge  of  sar- 
casm was  in  his  tone.  "  Well,  he  hain't.  Before  we 
lost  sight  of  him,  I  got  word  concarning  him  from  one 
part  of  the  world  and  another.  If  I  haven't  got  the  law 
of  him,  it's  because  he's  too  much  of  a  sneak.  lie 
wasn't  anything  but  a  handsome  sort  of  beast  to  begin 
w^ith  ;  and,  what  with  drinking  and  the  life  he's  led,  he's 
grown  into  a  sort  of  thing  that  had  better  go  on  all 
fours  like  Xebuchadnezzar  tlum  come  nigh  decent 
people  on  his  hind-legs.  Why  has  he  let  her  alone  all 
these  years  ?  "  The  speech  was  grimly  dramatic.  "  Why, 
just  l>eof;nse,  first  place,  I  believe  another  woman  had 
thPi  , "i  hand  of  him;  second  place,  when  he  married 
madam  ;■  was  the  land  and  money  her  father  had  to 
leave  her  that  made  him  make  that  bargain,  lie  hadn't 
that  in  him  tliat  would  make  liim  care  for  a  white  slip 
of  a  girl  as  she  was  then,  and,  any  way,  he  knew  that 
the  girl  and  the  money  would  keep  till  he  was  sick  of 
roving.  It's  as  nasty  a  trick  as  could  be  that  he's  served 
her,  playing  dead  dog  all  these  years,  and  coming  to 


1 


ca{« 


h<  r  unawares.     I  tell  ve  the  main  thing:  he  has  on 


his  mind  is  revenge  for  the  letters  she  wrote  him  when 


11 

I  la 

Til 


^'1 


-I 


:  11. 


tl! 


:  .'i\ 


m 


i 


224 


THE  MERMAID. 


:'tJ 


I 


M 


she  first  got  word  of  iiis  tricks,  and  then,  too,  he's 
coming  back  to  carouse  on  her  money  and  the  money 
she's  made  on  his  father's  land,  that  he  niver  looked  to 
himself." 

O'Shea  stalked  through  the  small  dark  rooms  and 
went  out,  closing  the  outer  door  gently  behind  him. 
Caius  sat  still,  wrapped  in  his  blankets.  He  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  knees.  The  darkness  was  only  the 
physical  part  of  the  blackness  tluit  closed  over  his  spirit. 
There  was  only  one  light  in  this  blackness — that  was 
Josephine's  face.  Calm  ]  ^  saw  it,  touched  with  the 
look  of  devotion  or  mercy;  hing  and  dimpled  he 

saw  it,  a  thing  at  one  with  the  ounshine  and  all  the  joy 
of  earth  ;  and  then  he  saw  it  change,  and  grow  pale  with 
fear,  and  repulsion,  and  disgust.  Around  this  one  face, 
that  carried  light  with  it,  there  were  horrid  shapes  and 
sounds  in  the  blackness  of  his  mind.  He  had  been  a 
good  man ;  he  had  preferred  good  to  evil :  had  it  all  been 
a  farce?  Was  the  thing  that  he  was  being  driven  to  do 
now  a  thing  of  satanic  prompting,  and  he  himself  cor- 
rupt— all  the  goodness  which  he  had  thought  tobe  him- 
self only  an  organism,  fair  outside,  that  rotted  inwardly? 
Or  was  this  fear  the  result  of  false  teaching,  the  prompt- 
ing of  an  artificial  conscience,  and  was  the  thing  he 
wished  to  do  the  wholesome  and  natural  course  to  take 
— right  in  the  sight  of  such  Deity  as  might  be  beyond 
the  curtain  of  the  unknown,  the  Force  who  had  set  the 
natural  laws  of  being  in  motion?  Caius  did  not  know. 
While  his  judgment  was  in  suspense  he  was  beset  by 
horrible  fears — the  fear  that  he  mio^ht  be  driven  to  do  a 
villainous  deed,  the  greater  fear  that  he  should  not  ac- 
complish it,  the  awful  fear,  rising  above  all  else  in  his 
mind,  of   seeing  Josephine  overtaken  by  the  horrible 


I.  U 


"THE  NIGHT  IS  DARK." 


225 


le 
iv. 

V 

la 

is 
e 


fate  which  menaced  her,  and  he  liimself  still  alive  to 
feel  her  misery  and  his  own. 

Xo,  rather  than  that  he  would  himself  kill  the  man. 
It  was  not  the  part  that  had  been  assigned  to  him,  but 
if  she  would  not  save  herself  it  would  be  the  noblest 
thing  to  do.  Was  he  to  allow  O'Shea,  with  a  wife  and 
children,  to  involve  himself  in  such  dire  trouble,  wlien 
he,  who  had  no  one  dependent  upon  him,  could  do  the 
deed,  and  take  what  consequences  might  be?  He  felt  a 
glow  of  moral  worth  like  that  which  he  had  felt  when 
he  decided  upon  his  mission  to  the  island — greater,  for 
in  that  his  motives  had  been  mixed  and  sordid,  and  in 
this  his  only  object  was  to  save  lives  that  were  of  more 
worth  than  his  own.  Should  he  kill  the  man,  he  would 
hardly  escape  death,  and  even  if  he  did,  he  could  never 
look  Josephine  in  the  face  again. 

Why  not?  Why,  if  this  deed  were  so  good,  could  he 
not,  after  the  doing  of  it,  go  back  to  her  and  read  grati- 
tude in  her  eyes?  Because  Josephine's  standard  of 
right  and  wrong  was  dilferent  from  his.  What  was  her 
standard  ?  His  mind  cried  out  an  impatient  answer. 
"  She  believes  it  is  better  to  suffer  than  to  be  happy." 
lie  did  not  believe  that;  he  would  settle  this  matter  by 
his  own  light,  and,  by  freeing  her  and  saving  her  faith- 
ful friends,  be  cut  off  from  her  for  ever. 

It  would  be  an  easy  tiling  to  do,  to  go  up  to  the  man 
and  put  a  knife  in  his  heart,  or  shoot  him  like  a  dog! 

His  whole  being  revolted  from  the  thought ;  when  the 
deed  came  before  his  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  that  only  in 
some  dark  feverish  imagination  could  he  have  dreamed 
of  acting  it  out,  that  of  course  in  plain  common-sense, 
that  daylight  of  the  mind,  he  could  not  will  to  do  this. 

Then  he  thought  again  of  the  misery  of  the  suffering 


a 


tf 


a 


226 


THE  iMERMAID. 


wife,  and  he  believed  that,  foreign  as  it  was  to  his 
whole  habit  of  life,  he  could  do  this,  even  this,  to  save 
her. 

Tlien  again  came  over  him  the  sickening  dread  that 
the  old  rules  of  right  and  wrong  that  lie  had  been 
taught  were  the  right  guides  after  all,  and  that  Joseph- 
ine was  right,  and  that  he  must  submit. 

The  very  thought  of  subniission  made  his  soul  rise 
up  in  a  mad  tempest  of  anger  against  such  a  moral  law, 
against  all  who  taught  it,  against  the  God  who  was  sup- 
posed to  ordain  it ;  and  so  strong  was  the  tempest  of 
this  wrath,  and  so  weak  was  he,  perplexed,  wretched, 
that  he  would  have  been  glad  even  at  the  same  moment 
to  have  appealed  to  the  God  of  his  fathers,  with  whom 
he  was  quarrelling,  for  counsel  and  help,  llis  quarrel 
was  too  tierce  for  that.  His  quarrel  with  God  made 
trust,  made  mere  belief  even,  impossible,  and  he  was 
aware  that  it  was  not  new,  that  this  was  only  the  cul- 
minating hour  of  a  long  rebellion. 


I 


i 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE   WILD    WAVES   WIII.ST. 


I 


i  • 


Next  morning,  wlien  Cains  walked  forth  into  the 
glory  of  the  April  snnshine,  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  poor, 
wretched  man.  There  was  not  a  fisherman  npon  the 
island,  lazy,  selfish  as  they  were,  and  despised  in  liis 
eyes,  that  did  not  appear  to  him  to  be  a  better  man  than 
he.  All  the  force  of  training  and  habit  made  the  thing 
that  he  was  going  to  do  appear  despicable ;  bnt  all  the 
force  of  training  and  habit  was  not  strong  enongh  to 
make  his  judgment  clear  or  dii'ect  his  will. 

The  muddy  road  was  beginning  to  steam  in  the  snn- 
sliine;  the  tliin  shining  ice  of  night  that  coated  its  pud- 
dles was  melting  away.  In  the  green  strip  by  the  road- 
side he  saw  the  yellow-tufted  head  of  a  dandelion  just 
level  with  the  grass.  The  thicket  of  stunted  firs  on 
either  side  smelt  sweet,  and  bevond  them  he  saw  the 
ice-field  that  dazzled  his  eyes,  and  the  blue  sea  that 
sparkled.  From  this  side  he  could  not  see  the  bay  and 
the  ship  of  fate  lying  at  anchor,  but  he  noticed  with 
relief  that  the  ice  was  not  much  less. 

There  was  no  use  in  thinking  or  feeling;  he  must 
go  on  and  do  what  was  to  be  done.  So  he  told  himself. 
He  shut  his  heart  against  the  influence  of  the  happy 
earth ;  he  felt  like  a  guest  bidden  by  fate,  who  knew 

887 


I  r 


i> 


At' 


228 


THE  MERMAID. 


not  whether  the  feast  were  to  he  for  hrichil  or  funeral. 
That  lie  was  not  a  stron^^  man  was  shown  in  this — that 
having  hoped  and  feared,  dreamed  and  sulTercd,  striij]^- 
gling  to  see  a  plain  path  where  no  path  was,  for  half 
the  night,  he  now  felt  that  his  power  of  thoiiglit  and 
feeling  had  burned  out,  that  he  eould  only  act  his  part, 
without  caring  much  what  its  results  might  be. 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  lie  had  groomed  his  horse, 
and  tidied  his  house,  and  bathed,  and  breakfasted.  He 
did  not  think  it  seemly  to  intrude  upon  the  lady  before 
this  hour,  and  now  he  ascended  her  steps  and  knocked 
at  her  door.  The  dogs  thumped  their  tails  on  the 
wooden  veranda ;  it  was  only  of  late  they  had  learned 
this  welcome  for  him.  Would  they  give  it  now,  he 
wondered,  if  they  could  see  his  heart?  As  he  stood 
there  waiting  for  a  minute,  he  felt  that  it  would  be 
good,  if  possible,  to  have  laid  his  dilemma  fairly  before 
the  canine  sense  and  heart,  and  to  have  let  the  dogs 
rise  and  tear  him  or  let  him  pass,  as  they  judged  best. 
It  was  a  foolish  fancy. 

It  was  O'Shea's  wife  who  opened  the  door;  her  face 
was  disfigured  by  crying. 

"  You  have  told  her  ?  "  demanded  Caius,  with  relief. 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  It  was  the  fine  morning  that  tempted  her  out,  sir," 
she  said.  "  She  sent  down  to  me,  saying  how  she  had 
taken  a  cup  of  milk  and  gone  to  ride  on  the  beach,  and 
I  was  to  come  up  and  look  after  the  girls.  But  look 
here,  sir" — eagerly — "it's  a  good  thing,  I'm  thinking, 
for  her  spirits  are  high  when  she  rides  in  fine  weather, 
and  she's  more  ready  for  games  and  plnys,  and  thinking 
of  pleasure.  She's  gone  on  the  west  shore,  round  by  the 
light,  for  O'Shea  he  looked  at  the  tracks.     Do  you  get 


THE  WILD  WAVES  WIITST. 


220 


I" 
d 
(1 
Ik 

^» 

>« 

;  1 


your  horse  and  ride  after,  where  you  see  her  tracks  in 
the  sand." 

Caius  went.  He  mounted  hi8  horse  and  rode  down 
upon  the  western  sliore.  He  found  tlie  truck,  and  <^al- 
loped  upon  it.  Tlie  tide  was  low  ;  the  ice  was  far  from 
shore;  tlie  highway,  smootlied  hy  tlie  waves,  was  tirm 
and  good.  Caius  galloped  to  the  end  of  the  island  where 
the  light  was,  where  the  sealing  vessels  lay  round  the 
base  of  the  lighthouse,  and  out  upon  the  dune,  and  still 
the  print  of  her  horse's  feet  went  on  in  front  of  him. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  and  she  had  been  upon 
the  dune  together. 

A  mile,  two  miles,  three ;  he  rode  at  an  easy  pace, 
for  now  he  knew  that  he  could  not  miss  the  rider  before 
him.  He  watched  the  surf  break  gently  on  the  broad 
shallow  reach  of  sand-ridges  that  lay  between  him  and 
the  floating  ice.  And  when  he  had  ridden  so  far  he  was 
not  the  same  man  as  when  ho  mounted  his  horse,  or  at 
least,  his  own  soul,  of  which  man  has  hardly  pernument 
possession,  had  returned  to  him.  He  could  now  see, 
over  the  low  mists  of  his  own  moods,  all  the  issues  of 
Josephine's  case — all,  at  least,  that  were  revealed  to 
him  ;  for  souls  are  of  different  stature,  and  it  is  as  the 
head  is  high  or  low  that  the  battlefield  is  truly  discerned. 

Long  before  he  met  her  he  saw  Josephine.  She  had 
apparently  gone  as  far  as  she  thought  wise,  and  was 
amusing  herself  by  making  her  horse  set  his  feet  in  the 
cold  surf.  It  was  a  game  with  the  horse  and  tiio  wave- 
lets that  she  was  playing.  Each  time  he  danced  back 
and  sunned  himself  he  had  to  go  in  again;  and  when 
he  stood,  his  hind-feet  on  the  sand  and  his  fore-feet 
reared  over  the  foam,  by  way  of  goitig  where  she  wislied 
and  keeping  himself  dry,  Caius  could  see  her  gestures  so 


230 


THE  MERMAID. 


well  tliat  it  seemed  to  him  he  heard  the  tones  of  phiyful 
remonstrance  with  whicli  slie  argued  the  case. 

When  she  perceived  that  Cains  intended  to  come  up 
to  her,  slie  rode  to  meet  him.  Her  white  cap  had  been 
taivcn  oir  and  stiiiTud  into  tlie  breast  of  her  dress ;  tiie 
liood  surrounded  her  face  loosely,  but  did  not  hide  it ; 
her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  pleasure — the  pure  animal 
pleasure  of  life  and  motion,  the  sensuous  pleasure  in  the 
beauty  and  tiie  music  of  the  waves ;  other  pleasures 
there  might  be,  but  these  were  certain,  and  predomi- 
nated. 

"  Why  did  vou  come?" 

She  asked  the  question  as  a  happy  child  might  ask 
of  its  })laymate — no  hint  of  danger. 

To  Caius  it  was  a  physical  impossibility  to  answer 
this  question  with  the  truth  jr.st  then. 

"Is  not  springrime  an  answer?"  he  asked,  then 
added  :  "  I  am  going  iiway  to-day.  I  came  for  one  last 
ride." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments,  evidently 
supposing  that  he  intended  to  go  to  Harbour  Island  to 
wait  there  for  his  ship.  If  that  were  so,  it  seemed  that 
she  felt  no  further  responsibility  about  her  conduct  to 
him.  His  heart  sank  to  see  that  her  joy  in  the  spring 
and  the  mori/  .g  was  such  that  the  thought  of  parting 
did  not  apparently  grieve  her  much. 

In  a  moment  more  her  eyes  flashed  at  him  with  the 
laughter  at  his  expense  which  he  knew  so  well ;  she  tried 
not  to  laugh  as  she  spoke,  but  could  not  help  it. 

"  I  have  been  visiting  the  band  of  men  who  were 
going  to  murder  you  the  night  you  came.  Would  you 
like  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  take  care  of  me." 


THE   WILD   WAVES  WIIIST. 


2;u 


last 


ting 


ithe 
lied 

rere 


As  she  turned  and  rode  before  liim  he  heard  her 
laughing. 

"  There,"  she  said,  stopping  and  pointing  to  the 
ground — "  there  is  the  ])lace  wiiere  tiie  quicksatid  was. 
I  have  not  gone  over  it  this  morning.  Sometimes  they 
last  from  one  season  to  another;  sometimes  they  change 
tiiemselves  in  a  few  days.  I  was  dreadfully  frigiitened 
when  we  began  to  sink,  but  it  was  you  wlio  saved  tlie 
pony." 

"  Don't,"  said  Caius — "  don't  attempt  to  make  the 
best  of  me.  I  would  ratlier  be  laughed  at."  He  spoke 
lightly,  without  feeling,  and  that  seemed  to  please  her. 

"I  think,"  she  said  candidly,  "we  behaved  very 
badly ;  but  it  was  O'Shea's  fault — I  only  enjoyed  it. 
And  I  don't  see  what  else  we  could  have  done,  because 
those  two  French  sailors  had  to  watch  if  anyone  came 
to  steal  from  the  wreck,  and  they  were  going  to  help 
us  so  far  as  to  go  to  the  sheds  on  the  cliff  for  boards 
to  get  up  the  cart ;  but  O'Shea  could  not  have  stayed 
all  night  with  the  bags  unless  I  had  left  him  my  coat 
as  well  as  his  own." 

"You  might  have  trusted  me,"  said  Ciiius.  Still 
he  spoke  with  no  sensibility  ;  she  grew  more  at  her 
ease. 

"  O'Shea  wouldn't ;  and  I  couldn't  control  O'Shea. 
And  then  we  had  to  meet  so  often,  that  I  could  not 
bear  that  you  should  know  I  had  worn  a  man's  oat. 
I  had  to  do  it,  for  I  couldn't  drive  home  any  other 
way."  Here  a  pause,  and  her  mind  wandered  to  another 
recollection.  "  Those  men  we  met  brought  us  word 
that  one  of  my  friends  was  so  ill ;  I  had  to  hurry  to  him. 
In  my  heart  I  thought  you  would  not  respect  me  be- 
cause I  had  worn  a  man's  coat ;  and  because Yes, 


Ml 


"■<  :l 


111 


TIIK  MKRMAII). 


1 


m-. 


it  was  very  naucjlity  of  me  indeed  to  ))e]uive  as  I  did  in 
tlie  water  tliat  surniiier.  Kven  tiieii  I  did  try  to  get 
O'Slieji  to  let  me  walk  with  von,  but  he  wouldn't." 

She  had  been  slowly  riding  through  a  deep,  soft  sand- 
drift  that  was  hea[)e(l  at  the  mouth  of  the  hollow,  and 
when  they  had  got  through  the  opening,  Cains  saw  the 
ribs  of  one  side  of  an  enormous  wreck  protruding  from 
the  sand,  about  six  feet  in  height.  A  small  hardy  weed 
luid  grown  upon  their  heads  in  tufts  ;  withered  and  sear 
with  the  winter,  it  still  hung  there.  The  ribs  bent  over 
a  little,  as  the  men  he  had  seen  had  bent. 

''  The  cloud-shadows  and  the  moonlight  were  very 
confusing,"  remarked  Josephine ;  "  and  then  O'Shea 
made  the  two  sailors  stand  in  the  same  way,  and  they 
were  real.  I  never  knew  a  man  like  O'Shea  /or  think- 
ing of  things  that  are  half  serious  and  lialf  funny.  I 
never  knew  him  yet  fail  to  find  a  way  to  do  the  thing 
lie  wanted  to  do ;  and  it's  always  a  way  that  makes  mo 
laugh." 

If  Josephine  would  not  come  away  with  him,  would 
O'Shea  find  a  way  of  killing  Le  Maitre  ?  and  would  it 
be  a  way  to  make  her  laugh  ?  With  the  awful  weight 
of  the  tidings  he  brought  upon  his  heart,  all  that  he  said 
or  did  before  he  told  them  seemed  artificial. 

"  I  thought  " — half  mechanically — "  that  I  saw  them 
all  hold  up  their  hands." 

"Did  you?"  she  asked.  "The  first  two  did;  O'Shea 
told  them  to  hold  up  their  hands." 

"  There  is  something  you  said  a  minute  ago  that  I 
want  to  answer,"  he  said. 

She  thought  he  had  left  the  subject  of  his  illusion 
because  it  mortified  him. 

"  You  said  " — he  besran  now  to  feel  emotion  as  he 


TIIK   WILD   WAVES   WHIST. 


21VS 


d 
it 


m 


le 


spoke — "  that  you  thouglit  I  should  not  ivspoet  you.  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  rcspocU'd  you  as  I  ivspccL  my 
niotiior,  ovt'ii  wlion  vou  were  only  a  nuTinaiti.  I  saw 
you  whon  1  tVli  that  night  as  wo  walked  on  this  lieach. 
If  you  had  worn  a  boy's  coat,  or  a  tisliskin,  always,  I  hail 
sense  enough  to  see  that  it  was  a  saint  at  play.  JIavo 
vou  read  all  the  odd  stories  about  the  saints  and  the  \'ir- 
gin— how  they  a]>})ear  and  vanish,  and  wear  odd  clothes, 
and  i)lay  benetieent  tricks  with  people  ?  It  was  like  that 
to  me.  I  don't  know  how  to  sav  it,  but  1  think  when 
good  people  play,  they  have  to  be  very,  very  gootl,  or 
they  don't  really  enjoy  it.  I  don't  know  how  to  ex})lain 
it,  but  the  moderate  sort  of  goodness  sj)()ils  everything." 

Caius,  when  he  had  said  this,  felt  that  it  was  some- 
thing he  had  never  thought  before  ;  ind,  whatever  it 
might  mean,  he  felt  instinctively  that  it  meant  a  great 
deal  more  than  lie  knew,  lie  felt  a  little  shabby  at  hav- 
ing expressed  it  from  her  religious  point  of  view,  in 
which  he  had  no  part;  but  his  excuse  was  that  there  was 
in  his  mind  at  least  the  doubt  that  she  might  be  right, 
and,  whether  or  not,  his  mission  just  then  was  to  gain 
her  confidence,  lie  brushed  scruples  aside  for  the  end 
in  view. 

"  I  am  glad  you  said  that,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not 
good,  but  I  should  like  to  be.  It  wasn't  becoming  to 
play  a  mermaid,  but  I  didn't  think  of  that  then.  I 
didn't  know  many  things  then  that  I  know  now.  You 
see,  my  uncle's  wife  drowned  her  little  child  ;  and  after- 
wards, when  she  was  ill,  I  went  to  take  care  of  her,  and 
we  could  not  let  anyone  know,  because  the  police  would 
hr.ve  interfered  for  fear  she  would  drown  me.  But  she 
is  quite  harmless,  poor  thing  !  It  is  only  that  time 
stopped  for  her  when  the  child  was  drowned,  and  she 


I! 


*     tl 


■5 

I 


ft 

i 


234 


THE  MERMAID. 


y      ' 


r 


5.J      ^ 


tliiuks  its  little  body  is  in  the  water  yet,  if  we  could  ouly 
find  it.  I  found  she  had  made  that  dress  you  call  a  tish- 
skin  with  floats  on  it  for  herself,  and  she  used  to  get  into 
tlie  sea,  from  the  o})ening  of  an  old  cellar,  at  night,  and 
push  herself  about  with  a  pole.  It  was  the  beautiful  wild 
tiling  that  only  a  mad  persoix  with  nice  thoughts  could 
do.  But  when  she  was  ill,  I  played  with  it,  for  1  had 
nothing  else  to  do  ;  it  was  desecration." 

"  1  thought  you  were  like  the  child  that  was  lost.  I 
think  you  are  like  her." 

"  She  thought  so,  too  ;  she  used  to  think  sometimes 
that  I  was  her  little  daughter  grown  up.  It  was  very 
strange,  living  with  her ;  I  almost  think  I  might  have 
gone  mad,  too,  if  1  hadn't  played  with  you." 

It  was  very  strange,  Caius  thought,  that  on  this  day 
of  all  days  she  should  be  willing  to  talk  to  him  about 
herself,  should  be  willing  to  laugh  and  chat  and  be  hap- 
py with  him.  The  one  day  that  he  dare  not  listen  lung, 
that  he  must  disturb  her  peace,  was  the  only  time  that 
she  had  seemed  to  wish  to  make  a  friend  of  him. 

"  Whe  ,  you  lived  so  near  us,"  he  asked,  "  did  you 
ever  come  across  the  woods  and  see  my  father's  house  ? 
Did  vou  see  mv  father  and  moth  or?  I  think  you  would 
like  them  if  you  did." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  lightly  ;  "  I  only  knew  who  you 
were  because  my  aunt  talked  about  you  ;  she  never  for- 
got what  you  had  done  for  the  child." 

"  Do  not  turn  your  horse  yet."  lie  allowed  himself 
to  be  urgent  now.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
which  must  be  said.  I  am  going  home  ;  I  do  not  want 
to  wait  for  the  steamer ;  I  want  to  bribe  one  of  those 
sealing  vessels  to  start  with  me  to-day.  I  have  come  to 
ask  you  if  you  will  not  come  with  me  to  see  my  mother. 


! 

If. 

[  si. 


THE  WILD  WAVES  WHIST. 


235 


1 


You  do  not  know  wliat  it  is  to  hav<^  a  mother.  ^lothors 
are  very  good  ;  mine  is.  You  would  like  to  be  with  he", 
I  know  ;  you  would  have  the  calm  of  feeling  taken  eai"'- 
of,  instead  of  standing  alone  in  tiie  world." 

He  said  all  this  without  lettiiiir  his  tone  betrav  that 
that  double-thou^hted  mind  of  his  was  telling  him  that 
this  was  doubtful,  that  his  mother  might  be  slow  to  be- 
lieve in  Josephine,  and  that  he  was  not  sure  whether 
Josephine  would  be  attracted  by  her. 

Josephine  looked  at  him  with  round-eyed  surprise ; 
then,  apparently  conjecturing  that  the  invitation  was 
purely  kind,  purely  stupid,  she  thanked  him,  and  de- 
clined it  graciously. 

"  Is  there  no  folly  with  which  you  would  not  easily 
credit  me?"  He  smiled  faintly  in  his  reproach.  "Do 
you  think  1  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying?     I  have 


been  awake  all  night  think 


?i 


awaive  all  nignt  tniuKing  what  I  could  do  for  you 
For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  helplessly,  hoping  that 
some  hint  of  the  truth  would  come  of  itself:  then,  turn- 
ing away  his  face,  he  said  hoarsely:  "  Le  Maitre  is  on 
the  Gasjie  schooner.  O'Shea  has  had  the  news.  He  is 
lying  drunk  in  his  berth." 

He  did  not  turn  until  he  heard  a  slight  sound. 
Then  he  saw  that  she  had  slipped  down  from  her  horse, 
perhaps  because  she  was  afraid  of  falling  from  it.  Her 
face  was  quite  white;  there  was  a  drawn  look  c'.'  abject 
terror  upon  it;  but  she  oidy  put  her  horse's  ''cin  in  his 
hand,  and  pointed  to  the  mouth  of  the  little  valley. 

"  jct  me  be  alone  a  little  while,"  she  whispered. 

S(     Caius   rode   out   upon   the   beach,   leading   her 
horse;  and  there  he  held  both  restive  animals  as  still  as 
might  be,  and  waited. 
10 


\n 


il 


/^..:i. 


it.    • 

t 


u 


-J    ' 

p.  H 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"GOD  'S   IX    HIS   IIEAVEX." 

Caius  wondered  how  long  he  ought  to  wait  if  she 
did  not  come  out  to  him.  lie  wondered  if  she  would 
die  of  misery  there  alone  in  the  sand-dune,  or  if  she 
w^ould  go  mad,  and  meet  him  in  some  fantastic  liumour, 
all  the  intelligence  scorched  out  of  her  poor  brain  by 
the  cruel  words  he  had  said.  He  had  a  notion  that  she 
had  wanted  to  say  her  prayers,  and,  although  he  did 
not  believe  in  an  answering  Heaven,  he  did  believe  that 
prayers  would  comfort  her,  and  he  hoped  that  that  was 
why  she  asked  to  be  left. 

When  he  thought  of  the  terror  in  her  eyes,  he  felt 
san2:uine  that  she  would  come  Aviih  him.  Now  that  he 
had  seen  her  distress,  it  seemed  to  him  worse  than  any 
notion  he  had  preconceived  of  it.  It  was  riglit  that  she 
should  go  with  hi' '.  AVhen  she  had  once  done  that,  he 
would  stand  between  her  and  this  man  always.  I'hat 
would  be  enough ;  if  she  should  never  care  for  him,  if 
he  had  nothing  more  than  that,  he  would  be  satisfied, 
and  the  world  might  think  what  it  would.  If  she  would, 
not  go  with  him — well,  then  he  would  kill  Le  ]\Iaitre. 
His  mind  was  made  up;  there  Avas  notliing  left  of  liesi- 
tation  or  scruple.  He  looked  at  the  broad  sea  and  the 
sunlight  and  the  sky,  and  made  his  vow  with  clenched 

230 


"GOD  'S  IN   HIS  HEAVEN." 


237 


felt 

It  he 

any 

she 

he 
'hat 
i,  if 
lied, 
iild 
Itre. 

.'si- 
Ithe 

led 


teeth.  He  laughed  at  the  words  wliich  liad  scared  him 
the  night  before — the  names  of  the  crimes  wliicli  were 
his  alternatives ;  they  were  made  righteousness  to  him 
by  the  sight  of  fear  in  a  woman's  face. 

It  is  one  form  of  weakness  to  lay  too  much  stress 
npon  the  emotion  of  another,  just  as  it  is  weak  to  take 
too  much  heed  of  our  own  emotions ;  but  Caius 
thought  the  sympathy  that  carried  all  before  it  was 
strength. 

After  awhile,  waiting  became  intolerable.  Leading 
both  horses,  he  walked  cautiously  back  to  a  point 
where  he  could  see  Josei^hine.  8he  was  sitting  ui)on 
the  sandy  bank  near  where  he  had  left  her.  lie  took 
his  cap  in  liis  hand,  and  went  with  the  horses,  standing 
reverently  before  her.  lie  felt  sure  now  that  she  had 
been  saying  her  prayers,  because,  although  her  face  was 
still  very  pallid,  she  was  composed  and  able  to  speak. 
He  wished  now  she  had  not  prayed. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me."  Iler  vo' 'o  trembled, 
but  she  gave  him  a  little  smile.  "I  caunot  pretend 
that  I  am  not  distressed ;  it  would  be  false,  and  false- 
hood is  not  right.  You  are  very,  very  kind,  and  I 
thank  vou " 

She  broke  off,  as  if  she  had  been  going  to  say  some- 
thing more  but  had  wearily  forgotten  wliat  it  was. 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that  I "  His  voice  was  like  one 
pleading  to  be  spared  a  blow.  "  I  love  you.  Tliere  is 
no  greater  joy  to  me  on  earth  than  to  serve  you." 

"Hush,"  she  said;  "don't  say  that.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you,  but  sorrow  must  come  to  us  all  in  some 
way." 

"Don't,  don't!"  he  cried— "don't  toll  me  that 
suifering  is  good.     It  is  not  good ;  it  is  an  evil.     It  is 


ii 


.iSl 


3 


238 


THE  MERMAID. 


V  I 


II  I 


ii  ' 


I!  1 


:  j 


right  to  shim  evil ;  it  is  the  only  right.  The  other  is  a 
horrid  fable — ti  lie  concoeted  by  priests  iind  devils  ! " 

"  Suppose  you  loved  sonieoiie — me,  for  iiistunce — 
and  I  was  dead,  and  you  knew  quite  certainly  that  by 
dying  you  would  come  to  where  I  was — would  you  call 
death  good  or  evil  ?  " 

He  demurred.  lie  did  not  want  to  admit  belief  in 
anything  connected  with  the  doctrine  of  submission. 

"I  said  'suppose,'"  she  said. 

"  I  would  go  through  far  more  than  death  to  come 
near  you." 

"  Suffering  is  just  a  gate,  like  death.  We  go  through 
it  to  get  the  things  we  really  want  most." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  a  religion  that  calls  suffering 
better  than  happiness ;  but  I  know  you  do." 

"Xo,  I  don't,"  she  said,  "and  God  does  not;  and 
peojole  who  talk  as  if  lie  did  not  want  us  to  seek  happi- 
ness— even  our  own  happiness — are  making  to  them- 
selves a  graven  image.  I  will  tell  you  how  I  think 
about  it,  bccau-o  I  have  been  alone  a  great  deal  and 
been  always  very  much  afraid,  and  that  has  made  me 
think  a  great  deal,  and  you  have  been  very  kiiid,  for 
you  risked  your  life  for  my  poor  people,  and  now  you 
would  risk  something  more  than  that  to  help  me.  Will 
you  listen  while  I  try  to  tell  you?" 

Cains  signified  his  assent.  He  was  L^^ing  all  his 
hope.  He  was  thinking  that  when  she  had  done  talk- 
ing he  would  go  and  get  ready  to  do  murder ;  but  he 
listened. 

"  You  see,"  she  began,  "  the  greatest  happiness  is 
love.  Love  is  greedy  to  get  as  well  as  to  give.  It  is 
all  nonsense  talking  about  love  that  gives  and  asks  ''or 
no  return.     We  only  put  up  with  that  when  we  cannot 


GOD  'S  IX   Ills   IIEAVEX." 


289 


111 


his 

klk- 
he 

is 
is 
for 
Inot 


get  the  other,  and  why?  Why  should  wc  think  it  tlio 
gniiidest  thing  to  give  wliiit  we  would  scorn  to  take  ? 
You,  for  instance — you  would  rather  have  a  person  you 
loved  do  nothing  for  you,  yet  enjoy  you,  always  demand- 
ing your  affection  and  presence,  than  that  he  or  slie 
sliould  be  endlessly  generous,  and  indifferent  to  what 
you  give  in  return." 

"  Yes."     He  blushed  as  he  said  it. 

"  Well  then,  it  is  cant  to  speak  as  if  the  love  that 
asks  for  no  return  is  the  noblest.  Xow  listen.  I  have 
something  very  solemn  to  say,  because  it  is  only  by  tlie 
greatest  things  that  we  learn  what  the  little  ought  to  be. 
When  God  came  to  earth  to  live  for  awliile,  it  was  for 
the  sake  of  His  hajipiness  and  ours ;  He  loved  us  in 
the  way  that  I  have  been  saying ;  Ho  Avas  not  content 
only  to  bless  us.  He  wanted  us  to  enjoy  Him.  Ho 
wanted  that  happiness  from  us ;  and  Ho  wanted  us  to 
expect  it  from  Him  and  from  each  otlier  ;  and  if  we  had 
answered,  all  would  have  been  like  the  first  marriage 
feast,  where  they  had  the  very  best  wine,  and  such  lots 


But,  vou  see. 


we  couldn't  answer ;  we  had  no 


of  it. 

souls.  We  were  just  like  the  men  on  Cloud  Island  who 
laughed  at  you  when  you  wanted  them  to  build  a  hos- 
pital. The  little  self  or  soul  that  we  had  was  of  that 
sort  that  we  couldn't  even  love  each  other  verv  much 
with  it,  and  not  Iliin  at  all.  So  there  was  only  one  way, 
and  that  was  for  us  to  grow  out  of  these  stupid  little 
souls,  and  get  good  big  ones,  that  can  enjoy  God,  and 
enjoy  each  other,  and  enjoy  everything  perfectly."  She 
looked  up  over  the  yellow  sand-hills  into  the  deep  sunny 
sky,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  the  April  air  involun- 
tarily. "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  a  good,  big,  perfect  soul  could 
enjoy  so  much." 


Mm 


I:: 


I  ;. 


240 


THE  MERMAID. 


i  ■*; 


It  seemed  as  if  she  thought  slic  hud  said  it  all  and 
finished  the  subject. 

"  Well,"  said  Caius,  interested  in  spite  of  himseK", 
"  if  God  wanted  to  make  us  happy,  He  could  have  given 
us  that  kind  of  soul." 

"  Ah,  no !  We  don't  know  why  things  have  to 
grow,  but  they  must ;  everything  grows — yo^i  know 
that.  For  some  reason,  that  is  the  best  way ;  so  thero 
was  just  one  way  for  those  souls  to  grow  in  us,  and  He 
showed  us  how.  It  is  by  doing  what  is  quite  perfectly 
right,  and  bearing  all  the  suffering  that  comes  because 
of  it,  and  doing  all  the  giving  side  of  love,  because  hero 
we  can't  get  much.  Pain  is  not  good  in  itself ;  it  is  a 
gate.  Our  souls  are  growing  all  through  the  gate  of 
the  suffering,  and  when  we  get  to  the  other  side  of  it, 
we  shall  find  we  have  won  them.  God  wants  us  to  bo 
greedy  for  happiness ;  but  we  must  find  it  by  going 
through  the  gate  He  went  through  to  show  us  the 
way." 

Caius  stood  before  her  holding  the  horses ;  even 
they  had  been  still  while  she  was  speaking,  as  if  listen- 
ing to  the  music  of  her  voice.  Caius  felt  the  misery  of 
a  wavering  will  and  confiicting  ihoughts. 

"  If  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  that  God  cared  about 
happiness — just  simple  happiness — it  would  make  reli- 
gion seem  so  much  more  sensible  ;  but  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
believe  in  living  after  death,  or  that  He  cares " 

What  she  said  was  wholly  unreasonable.  She  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  his,  as  if  the  hand-clasp  were 
a  compact. 

"  Trust  God  and  see,"  she  said. 

There  was  in  her  white  face  such  a  look  of  glorious 
hope,  that  Caius,  half  carried  away  by  its  inspiration, 


'« GOD  'S  IN  niS  IlEAVEX." 


2il 


)Ollt 

:eli- 
m't 


)Ut 

tere 


)US 


still  quailed  before  her.  After  he  hud  wrung  her  hand, 
he  found  himself  brushinf]^  his  sleeve  across  his  eves. 
As  he  thought  that  he  had  lost  her,  thought  of  all  that 
she  would  have  to  endure,  of  the  murder  he  still  longed 
to  commit,  and  felt  all  the  agony  of  indecision  again,  and 
suspected  that  after  this  he  would  scruple  to  c.'  uiMit  it 
— when  all  this  came  upon  him,  he  turned  and  leaned 
against  one  of  the  horses,  sobbing,  conscious  in  a  vague 
way  that  he  did  not  wish  to  stop  himself,  but  only 
craved  her  pity. 

Josephine  comforted  him.  She  did  not  apparently 
try  to,  she  did  not  do  or  say  anything  to  the  purpose ; 
but  she  evinced  such  consternation  at  the  siorht  of  his 


tears,  that  stronger  th( 


lights 


came.     lie  put  aside  his 


trouble,  and  helped  her  to  mount  her  horse. 

They  rode  along  the  beach  slowly  together.  She 
was  content  to  go  slowly.  She  looked  physically  too 
exhausted  to  ride  fast.  Even  yet  probably,  wdthin  her 
heart,  the  conflict  was  going  forward  that  had  only  been 
well  begun  in  her  brief  solitude  of  the  sand  valley. 

Cains  looked  at  her  from  time  to  time  with  feelings 
of  fierce  indignation  and  dejection.  The  indignation 
was  against  Le  Maitre,  the  dejection  was  wholly  upon 
his  own  account ;  for  he  felt  that  his  plan  of  help  had 
failed,  and  that  where  he  had  hoped  to  give  strength 
and  comfort,  he  had  only,  in  ntter  weakness,  exacted 
pity.  Caius  had  one  virtue  in  these  days  :  he  did  not 
admire  anything  that  he  did,  and  he  did  not  even  think 
much  about  the  self  he  scorned.  With  regard  to  Joseph- 
ine, he  felt  that  if  her  philosophy  of  life  were  true  it 
was  not  for  him  to  presume  to  pity  her.  So  vividly  had 
she  brought  her  conception  of  the  use  of  life  before  him 
that  it  was  stamped  upon  his  mind  in  a  brief  series  of 


i1 


m 


f' 


:R  'X 


J      : 


242 


THE  MERMAID. 


IP 


pictures,  clear,  iiulelible  ;  and  the  last  picture  was  one 
of  which  he  could  not  think  clearly,  but  it  produced  in 
him  an  idea  of  the  after-life  which  he  liad  not  before. 

Then  he  thought  again  of  the  cloud  under  which 
Josephine  was  entering,  ller  decision  would  in  all 
probability  cut  down  her  bright,  useful  life  tc  a  few 
short  years  of  struggle  and  shame  and  sorrow.  At 
last  he  spoke  : 

"  But  why  do  you  think  it  right  to  sacrifice  your- 
self to  this  man  ?     It  does  not  seem  to  me  right." 

He  knew  then  what  clearness  of  thought  she  had, 
for  she  looked  with  almost  horror  in  her  face. 

"  Sacrifice  myself  for  Le  Maitre  !  Oh  no  !  I  should 
have  no  right  to  do  that ;  but  to  the  ideal  right,  to 
God — yes.  If  I  withheld  anything  from  God,  how 
could  I  win  my  soul  ?  " 

"  But  how  do  you  know  God  requires  this  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  told  you  before.  Why  will  you  not  under- 
stand? I  have  prayed.  I  know  God  has  taken  this 
thing  in  his  own  hand." 

Caius  said  no  more.  Josephine's  way  of  looking  at 
this  thing  might  not  be  true ;  that  was  not  what  he 
was  considering  just  then,  lie  knew  that  it  was  in- 
tensely true  for  her,  would  remain  true  for  her  until 
the  event  of  death  proved  it  true  or  false.  This  was 
the  factor  in  the  present  problem  that  was  the  enemy 
to  his  scheme.  Then,  furthermore,  whether  it  were 
true  or  false,  he  knew  that  there  was  in  his  mind 
the  doubt,  and  that  doubt  would  remain  with  him, 
and  it  would  prevent  him  from  killing  Le  Maitre  ;  it 
would  even  prevent  him  from  abetting  O'Sliea,  and 
he  supposed  that  that  abetting  would  be  necessary. 
Here  was  cause  enough  for  dejection — that  the  whole 


"GOD  'S  IN   niS  HEAVEN." 


243 


n- 
M 

Id 
It 


miserable  progress  of  events  wliicli  he  feared  most 
Blioiild  take  pla(3e.  And  why  ?  IJocuuse  a  woman 
hehl  a  glorious  faitli  Avhich  might  turn  out  to  bo 
delusion,  and  because  he,  a  man,  had  not  strength  to 
believe  for  certain  that  it  was  a  delusion. 

It  raised  no  flicker  of  renewed  hope  in  Caius  to 
meet  O'Shea  at  the  turn  of  the  shore  where  the  boats 
of  the  seal  fishery  were  drawn  up.  O'Shea  liad  a 
brisk  look  of  energy  that  made  it  evident  that  he  was 
still  bent  upon  accomplishing  his  design.  He  stopped 
in  front  of  the  lady's  horse,  and  said  something  to  her 
which  Caius  did  not  hear. 

"  Have  ye  arranged  that  little  picnic  over  to  Prince 
Edward's,"  he  called  to  Caius. 

Caius  looked  at  Josephine.  O'Shea's  mere  presence 
had  put  much  of  the  spiritual  aspect  of  the  case  to 
flight,  and  he  suddenly  smarted  under  the  realization 
that  he  had  never  put  the  question  to  her  since  she 
had  known  her  danger — never  put  the  request  to  her 
strongly  at  all. 

"  Come,"  said  Josephine ;  "  1  am  going  home.  I  am 
going  to  send  all  my  girls  to  tlieir  own  homes  and  get 
the  house  ready  for  my  husband." 

O'Sliea,  with  imperturbable  countenance,  pushed  off 
his  hat  and  scratched  his  head. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  he  remarked  casually,  "  that  I'd 
jist  send  Mammy  along  with  ye  to  Prince  Edward." 
(Mammy  was  what  he  always  called  his  wife.)  "  I  am 
tliinking  he'll  be  real  glad  to  see  her,  for  she's  a  real 
respectable  woman." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Josephine,  puzzled. 

"  Prince  Edward,  that  owns  the  island,"  said  O'Shea. 
"  And  she's  that  down  in  the  mouth,  it's  no  comfort 


kT 


i  ^^ 


2U 


TnE  MERMATD. 


for  mo  to  have  lior ;  and  she  can  take  the  baby  and 
Avc'lcome.  It's  a  fair  sea."  He  looked  to  the  soutli  as 
ho  spoke.  "  I'd  risk  both  her  and  tlie  brat  on  it ; 
and  Skipper  Pierre  is  getting  ready  to  take  the  boat 
aeross  the  iei*/' 

Cains  saw  that  resolntion  had  fled  from  Josephine. 
She  too  looked  at  the  calm  bine  southern  sea,  and 
agonized  longing  came  into  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to 
Cains  too  cruel,  too  horribly  cruel,  that  she  should  be 
tortured  by  this  temptation.  Because  he  knew  that 
to  her  it  could  be  nothing  but  temptation,  he  sat 
silent  when  O'Shea,  seeing  that  the  lady's  gaze  was 
afar,  signed  to  him  for  aid ;  and  because  he  hoped 
that  she  might  yield  he  was  silent,  and  did  not  come  to 
rescue  her  from  the  tormentor. 

O'Sliea  gave  him  a  look  of  undisguised  scorn  ;  but 
since  he  would  not  woo,  it  appeared  that  this  man  was 
able  to  do  some  wooing  for  him. 

"  Of  course,"  remarked  O'Shea,  "  I  see  difficulties. 
If  the  doctor  here  was  a  young  man  of  parts,  I'd 
easier  put  ye  and  Mammy  in  his  care  ;  but  old  Skipper 
Pierre  is  no  milksop." 

Josephine  looked,  first  alert,  as  if  suspecting  an 
ill-bred  joke,  and  then,  as  O'Shea  appeared  to  be  speak- 
ing to  her  quite  seriously,  forgetting  that  Cains  might 
overhear,  there  came  upon  her  face  a  look  of  gentle 
severity. 

"  That  is  not  what  I  think  of  the  doctor  ;  I  would 
trust  him  more  quickly  than  anyone  else,  except  you, 
O'Shea." 

The  words  brought  to  Cains  a  pang,  but  he  hardly 
noticed  it  in  watching  the  other  two,  for  the  lady, 
when  she  had  spoken,  looked  off  again  with  longing  at 


-■**■ 


:f«i 


"GOD  'S  IN  HIS  HEAVEN." 


245 


the  sea,  and  O'Slioa,  whose  rough  heart  melted  under 
the  trustful  atrection  of  the  excoi)tiou  she  nuidc,  for  a 
moment  turned  away  his  head.  Caius  saw  in  hitn  the 
man  whom  he  had  only  once  seen  bcfori',  and  that 
was  when  his  child  had  died.  It  was  but  a  1\'W 
moments ;    the   easy  quizzical    manner  sat   upon   him 


■i 


again. 


at 


"  Oh,  well,  he  hasn't  got  much  to  him  one  way  or 
the  other,  but "  tins  in  low,  confidential  tones. 

Caius  could  not  hear  her  reply ;  he  saw  that  she 
interrupted,  earnestly  vindicating  him.  He  drew  his 
horse  back  a  pace  or  two ;  he  would  not  overhear  her 
argument  on  his  behalf,  nor  wonld  he  trust  0\Shea  so 
far  as  to  leave  them  alone  together. 

The  cleverness  with  which  O'Shea  drove  her  into  a 
glow  of  enthusiasm  for  Caius  was  a  revelation  of  power 
which  the  latter  at  the  moment  could  onlv  remird 
curiously,  so  torn  was  his  heart  in  respect  to  the  issue 
of  the  trial.  He  was  so  near  that  their  looks  told  him 
what  he  could  not  hear,  and  he  saw  Josephine's  face 
glow  with  the  warmth  of  regard  which  grew  under 
the  other's  sneers.  Then  he  saw  O'Shea  visibly  cast 
that  subject  away  as  if  it  was  of  no  importance ;  he 
went  near  to  her,  speaking  low,  but  with  the  look  of 
one  who  brought  the  worst  news,  and  Caius  knew, 
without  question,  that  he  was  pouring  into  her  ears 
all  tiie  evil  he  had  ever  heard  of  Le  Maitre,  all  the 
detail  of  his  present  drunken  condition.  Caius  did 
not  move ;  he  did  not  know  whether  the  scene  before 
him  represented  Satan  with  powerful  grasji  upon  a 
soul  that  would  otherwise  have  passed  into  some  more 
heavenly  region,  or  whether  it  was  a  wise  and  good 
man  trying  to  save  a  woman  from  her  own  fanatical 


? 


■■  ;* 


t' 


240 


THE  MERMAID. 


folly.  The  latter  seemed  to  bo  the  case  when  he  looked 
about  him  at  the  beach,  at  the  boats,  at  the  lij^^lit- 
house  on  the  cliff  above,  with  a  clotlies-line  near  it, 
spread  with  flapping  garments.  When  he  looked,  not 
outward,  but  inward,  aiul  saw  Josephine's  vision  of  life, 
he  believed  ho  ought  to  go  forward  and  beat  off  the 
serpent  from  the  dove. 

The  colloquy  was  not  very  long.  Then  O'Shea  led 
Josephine's  horse  nearer  to  Cains. 

"  Madame  and  my  wife  will  go  with  ye,"  he  said. 
"I've  told  the  men  to  get  the  boat  out." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  moaned  Josephine. 

Her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands,  and  Cains  re- 
membered how  those  pretty  white  hands  had  at  one 
time  beckoned  to  him,  and  at  another  had  angrily 
waved  him  away.  Now  they  were  held  helplessly  before 
a  white  face  that  was  convulsed  with  fear  and  shame 
and  self-abandonment. 

"  There  ain't  no  particular  hurry,"  remarked  O'Shea 
soothingly ;  "  but  Mammy  has  packed  up  all  in  the 
houses  that  needs  to  go,  and  she'll  bring  warm  clothes 
and  all  by  the  time  the  boat's  out,  so  there's  no  call  for 
madame  to  go  back.  It  would  be  awful  unkind  to  the 
girls  to  set  them  crying ;  and  " — this  to  Cains — "  ye  jist 
go  and  put  up  yer  things  as  quick  as  ye  can." 

His  words  were  accompanied  by  the  sound  of  the 
fishermen  putting  rollers  under  the  small  schooner 
that  had  been  selected.  The  old  skipper,  Pierre,  had 
begun  to  call  out  his  orders.  Josephine  took  her 
hands  from  her  face  suddenly,  and  looked  towards  the 
busy  men  with  such  eager  hungry  desire  for  the  free- 
dom they  were  preparing  for  her  that  it  seemed  to  Caius 
that  at  that  moment  his  own  heart  broke,  for  he  saw 


"GOD  'S  IN  HIS   HEAVEN." 


247 


that  Joscpliinc  was  not  convinced  but  that  she  hud 
yieUled.  He  knew  that  Mammy's  presence  on  the  jour- 
ney made  no  real  dillerenue  in  its  guilt  from  Jose- 
l)hine's  standpoint;  her  duty  to  her  Cod  was  to  remain 
at  her  post.  Siio  liad  tlineiied  from  it  out  of  mere 
cowardice — it  was  a  fad.  Caius  knew  that  he  liad  no 
(ilioice  but  to  help  her  back  to  her  better  self,  that  ho 
would  be  a  dastard  if  he  did  not  do  it. 

Three  times  he  essayed  to  speak ;  he  had  not  tho 
right  words;  then,  even  witiiout  them,  he  broke  tho 
silence  hurriedly : 

"  I  think  you  are  justified  in  coming  with  me ;  but 
if  you  do  what  you  believe  to  be  wrong — you  will  regret 
it.     What  does  your  heart  say?    Think  ! " 

It  was  a  feeble,  stammered  protest ;  he  felt  no  dig- 
nity in  it ;  he  almost  felt  it  to  be  the  craven  insult  seen 
in  it  by  O'Sliea,  who  swore  under  his  breath  and  glared 
at  him. 

Josephine  gave  only  a  long  sobbing  sigh,  as  one 
awakening  from  a  dream.  She  looked  at  the  boat 
again,  and  the  men  preparing  it,  and  then  at  Caius — 
straight  in  his  eyes  she  looked,  as  if  searching  his  face 
for  something  more. 

"  Follow  your  own  conscience,  Josephine ;  it  is  truer 
than  ours.  I  was  wrong  to  let  you  be  tempted,"  he  said. 
"  Forgive  me ! " 

She  looked  again  at  the  boat  and  at  the  sea,  and 
then,  in  the  staved  subdued  manner  that  had  become 
too  habitual  to  her,  she  said  to  O'Shea : 

"  I  will  go  home  now.  Dr.  Simpson  is  right.  I 
cannot  go." 

O'Shea  was  too  clever  a  man  to  make  an  effort  to 
hold  what  he  knew  to  be  lost;  he  let  go  her  rein,  and 


J    1 

m 
I 


r  i^ 


S.  f 

i  i 


248 


THE  31ERMAID. 


n-  H 


she  rodo  np  the  patli  that  led  to  the  ishind  road.  When 
she  was  gone  O'Shca  turned  upon  Cains  with  a  look  of 
mingled  scorn  and  loatliing. 

"  Ye're  afraid  of  Le  .Maitre  coming  after  ye,"  he 
hissed  ;  "  or  ye  have  a  girl  at  home,  and  would  foind  it 
awkward  to  brim?  her  and  madam  face  to  lace:  so  ve 
give  her  up,  the  most  angel  woman  that  ever  trod  tiiis 
earth,  to  be  done  to  death  by  a  beast,  because  ye're 
afraid  for  yer  own  skin.  Bah  !  I  had  come  to  think 
better  of  ye." 

With  that  he  cut  at  the  horse  with  a  stick  he  had 
in  his  hand,  and  the  creature,  wholly  unaccustomed  to 
such  pain  and  indignity,  dashed  along  the  shore,  by 
chance  turning  homeward.  Caius,  carried  perforce  as 
upon  the  wings  of  the  wind  for  half  a  mile,  was  thrown 
olf  upon  the  sand.  He  picked  himself  up,  and  with 
wet  clothes  and  sore  limbs  walked  to  his  little  house, 
which  he  felt  he  could  no  longer  look  upon  as  a  home. 

He  could  hardly  understand  what  he  had  done:  he 
began  to  regret  it.  A  man  cannot  see  tlie  forces  at 
work  upon  his  inmost  self,  lie  did  not  know  that 
Jocephine's  soul  had  taken  his  by  the  hand  and  lifted 
it  up — that  his  love  for  her  had  risen  from  earth  to 
heaven  when  he  feared  the  slightest  wrong-doing  for 
her  more  than  all  other  misfortune. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"god's  puppets,  best  and  worst." 

All  tliiit  long  day  a  hot  sun  beat  down  npon  the  sea 
and  upon  the  ice  in  the  bay ;  and  tlie  tide,  with  its 
gentle  motion  of  How  and  ebb,  made  visibly  more  stir 
among  the  cakes  of  floating  ice,  by  which  it  was  seen 
that  tliey  were  smaller  and  lighter  than  before.  The 
sun-rays  were  doing  their  work,  not  so  much  by  direct 
touch  upon  the  ice  itself  as  by  raising  the  temperature 
of  all  the  flowing  sea,  and  thus,  v  hen  the  sun  went 
down  and  the  night  of  frost  set  in,  the  melting  of  the 
ice  did  not  cease. 

Morning  came,  and  revealed  a  long  blue  channel 
across  the  bay  from  its  entrance  to  JIarbour  Island. 
The  steamer  from  Souris  had  made  this  channel  by 
kno.^-king  aside  the  light  ice  with  her  prow.  She  was 
built  to  travel  in  ice.  She  lav  now,  with  funnel  still 
smoking,  in  the  harbour,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  tlie 
small  quay.  The  Gaspe  schooner  still  lay  without  the 
bav,  but  there  was  a  movement  of  unfurl  in ;?  sails  anions: 
her  masts,  by  whicli  it  was  evident  that  her  skip})er 
hope(]  by  the  faint  but  favour:,blc  breeze  that  was  blow- 
ing to  bring  her  down  the  same  blue  highway. 

It  \7as  upon  tills  scene  tliat  Caius,  wretched  and 
sleepless,  looked  at  early  dawn,     lie  had  come  out  of 


t\% 


250 


THE  xMEKMAID. 


I 


his  house  and  climbed  tlie  nearest  knoll  from  which  the 
bay  could  be  seen,  for  his  house  and  those  near  it  looked 
on  the  open  western  sea.  When  he  reached  this  knoll 
he  found  that  O'Slica  was  there  before  him,  examining 
the  movements  of  the  ship  with  his  glass  in  the  gray 
cold  of  tlie  shivering  morning.  The  two  men  stood 
together  and  held  no  communication. 

Pretty  soon  0\Shea  went  hastily  home  again.  Caius 
stood  still  to  see  the  sun  rise  clear  and  golden.  There 
were  no  clouds,  no  vapours,  to  catch  its  reflections  and 
make  a  wondrous  spectacle  of  its  appearing.  'I'lie  blue 
horizon  slowly  dipped  until  the  whole  yellow  disc 
beamed  above  it ;  ice  and  water  glistened  pleasantly ; 
on  the  hills  of  all  the  sister  isles  there  was  sunshine  and 
shade ;  and  round  about  him,  in  the  hilly  field,  each 
rock  and  bush  cast  a  long  shadow.  Between  them  the 
sun  struck  the  grass  with  such  level  rays  that  the 
very  blades  and  clumps  of  blades  cast  their  shadows 
also. 

Caius  had  remained  to  watch  if  the  breeze  would 
strengthen  with  the  sun's  uprising,  and  he  prayed  the 
forces  of  heat  and  cold,  aiul  all  things  that  preside  over 
the  currents  of  air,  that  it  might  not  strengthen  but 
languish  and  die. 

What  dilference  did  it  make,  a  few  hours  more  or 
less?  Ko  difference,  he  knew,  and  yet  all  the  fresh 
energy  the  new  day  brought  him  went  forth  in  this 
desire  that  Josephine  might  have  a  few  hours  longer 
respite  before  she  began  the  long  weary  course  of  life 
that  stretched  before  liei. 

Caius  had  packed  up  all  his  belongings,  There  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  drive  along  the  dune  with 
his  luggMgo,  as  ho  had  driven  four  months  before,  iind 


/f 


'•GOD'S  PUPPETS,  BEST  AND  WORST."         251 


10  WtlS 

with 
',  iind 


take  tlie  steamer  that  nis^lit  to  Souris.  The  cart  that 
took  him  woiihl  no  doubt  bring  back  Lc  Maitre.  Cains 
had  not  yet  hired  a  cart ;  he  had  not  tlie  least  idea 
whether  O'Shea  intended  to  drive  liim  and  brins^  back 
his  enemy  or  not.  That  wonh],  no  doubt,  be  Josephine's 
desire.  Cuius  had  not  seen  Josephine  or  spoken  to 
O'Shea;  it  mattered  notliing  to  him  what  arrangement 
they  would  or  would  not  make  for  him. 

As  he  still  stood  watchinii;  to  see  if  the  breeze  would 
round  and  fill  the  sails  which  the  Gaspe  schooner  had 
set,  0'8hea  came  back  and  called  from  the  foot  of  the 
knoll.  Caius  turned;  he  bore  the  man  no  ill  will. 
Josephine's  horse  had  not  been  injured  by  the  accident 
of  yesterday,  and  his  own  fall  was  a  matter  of  complete 
indifference. 

"  I'm  thinking,  as  ye  packed  yer  bags,  ye'U  bo  going 
for  the  steamer." 

O'.Shea  spoke  with  that  indefinalde  insult  in  his  tone 
which  had  always  characterized  it  in  the  days  of  their 
first  intercourse,  but,  apart  from  that,  his  numner  was 
crisp  and  cool  as  the  morning  air ;  not  a  shade  of  dis- 
couragement was  visible. 

"  I  am  going  for  tlie  steamer,"  said  Caius,  and  waited 
to  hear  what  oll'er  of  conveyance  was  to  be  made 
him. 

"Well,  Fm  thinking,"  said  O'Shca,  "that  Til  just 
take  the  boat  across  the  bay,  and  bring  back  the  captain 
from  Harbour  Island  ;  but  as  his  honour  might  prefer 
the  cart,  I'll  send  the  cart  round  by  the  dune.  There's 
no  saying  but,  liaving  been  in  tropical  i)arts,  he  may  be 
a  bit  scared  of  the  ice.  llowsomever,  knowing  that  he's 
in  that  haste  to  meet  his  bride,  and  would,  no  doubt, 
grudge  so  much  as  a  day  spent  between  here  and  there 
17 


« 


I  I 


■ 


252 


THE  MERMAID. 


1 1 


on  the  s<and,  I'll  jist  give  him  liis  cliice ;  being  who  he 
is,  and  a  foine  gintlenian,  he  has  his  riglit  to  it.  As  for 
you  " — the  tone  instantly  slipjx'd  into  insolent  indiifer- 
ence — "  ye  can  go  by  one  or  the  other  with  yer  bags." 

It  was  not  clear  to  Caius  that  O'Shea  had  any  in- 
tention  of  himself  escorting;  Le  Maitre  if  he  chose  to  cro 
by  the  sand.  This  inclined  him  to  suppose  that  he  had 
no  fixed  plan  to  injure  him.  What  riglit  had  he  to 
suppose  such  plan  had  been  formed?  The  man  before 
him  wore  no  look  of  desperate  passion.  In  the  pleasant 
weather  even  the  dune  was  not  an  unfrequented  place, 
and  the  bay  was  overlooked  on  all  sides.  Cains  could 
not  decide  whetlier  his  suspicion  of  O'Shea  had  been 
just  or  a  monstrous  injustice.  He  felt  such  sus})icion 
to  be  morbid,  and  he  said  nothing.  The  futility  of  ask- 
ing a  question  that  would  not  be  answered,  the  difficulty 
of  interference,  and  his  extreme  dislike  of  incurring 
from  O'Shea  farther  insult,  were  enough  to  produce  his 
silence.  13ehind  that  lay  the  fact  that  he  would  be  al- 
most glad  if  the  murder  was  done.  Josephine's  faith 
had  inspired  in  him  such  love  for  her  as  had  made  him 
save  her  from  doing  what  she  thought  wrong  at  any  cost ; 
but  the  inspiration  did  not  extend  to  this.  It  appeared 
to  him  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two. 

"  I  will  go  with  the  boat,"  said  Caius.  "  It  is  the 
quicker  way." 

lie  felt  that  for  some  reason  this  pleased  O'Shea, 
who  began  at  once  to  hurry  off  to  get  the  luggage,  but 
as  he  went  he  only  remarked  grimly : 

"  They  say  as  it's  the  longest  way  round  that  is  the 
shortest  way  home.  If  you're  tipped  in  the  ice,  Mr. 
Doctor,  ye'll  foind  that  true,  I'm  thinking." 

Caius   found   that  O'Shea's  boat,  a  heavy  flat-bot- 


■i  \ 


3  he 
ilfer- 

3." 

yin- 
:o  go 
e  had 
he  to 
3cfore 
^asant 
place, 
(•ould 
I  been 
;picion 
of  ask- 
mculty 
-urring 
Lice  his 
i  be  al- 
's  faith 
ide  him 
ly  cost ; 
ppeared 


"GOD'S  PITPPETS,  BEST  AND  WORST."        253 

tomed  thing,  was  ah'eady  half  launched  upon  the  beach, 
furnished  with  stout  boat-hooks  for  pushing  among  the 
ice,  as  well  as  her  oars  and  sailing  gear,  lie  was  glad 
to  find  that  such  speedy  departure  was  to  be  his.  lie 
had  no  thought  of  saying  good-bye  to  Josephine. 


is 


the 


1 0' Shea, 
acre,  but 


it  is  the 
Mr. 


ice, 


flat-bot- 


f-  -I 


ft-* 


p-  it  .1 

^4  h 
I' 


'^^: 


mi 


i  I 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  DEATH    SHRIVE  THY   SOUL  !  " 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  stand  in  the  boat  with 
the  boat-liook,  whose  use  demanded  all  the  skill  and 
nerve  which  Oaius  had  at  command.  For  the  most  part 
they  could  only  propel  the  boat  by  pushing  or  pulling 
the  bits  of  ice  that  surrounded  it  with  their  jioles.  It 
was  a  very  dilTerent  sort  of  travel  from  that  which  they 
had  experienced  together  when  they  had  carried  their 
boat  over  islands  of  ice  and  launched  it  in  the  great 
gaps  between  them.  The  ice  wdiich  they  had  to  do 
with  now  would  not  have  borne  their  weight ;  nor  was 
there  much  clear  space  for  rowing  between  the  fragments. 
O'Shea  pushed  the  boat  boldly  on,  and  they  made  their 
journey  with  comjoarative  ease  until,  when  they  came 
near  the  channel  made  by  the  steamship,  they  found  the 
ice  lying  more  closely,  and  the  difficulty  of  their  prog- 
ress increased. 

Work  as  they  would,  they  were  getting  on  but  slowly. 
The  light  wind  blew  past  their  faces,  and  the  Gaspe 
schooner  was  seen  to  sail  up  the  path  which  the  steamer 
had  made  across  the  bay. 

"  The  wind's  in  the  verv  chink  that  makes  her  able 
to  take  the  channel.  I'm  thinking  she'll  be  getting  in 
before  us." 

254 


DEATH  SHRIVE  TIIY  SOUL!" 


255 


lat  with 
Lill  and 
ost  part 
pulling 
)les.     It 
ich  they 
ed  their 
10  great 
d  to  do 
Inor  was 
gments. 
Ide  their 
ly  came 
lund  the 
^ir  prog- 

li  slowly. 
|ie  Gaspe 
steamer 

Iher  able 
jtting  in 


O'Shoa  spoke  with  the  gay  indifForonco  of  one  who 
had  staked  nothing  on  the  hope  of  getting  to  the  har- 
bour first ;  but  Caius  wondered  if  this  short  cut  would 
have  been  undertaken  without  strong  reason. 

A  short  period  of  hard  exertion,  of  pushing  and 
pulling  the  bits  of  ice,  followed,  and  then : 

"  I'm  thinking  we'll  make  tlie  channel,  any  way, 
before  she  comes  by,  and  then  we'll  just  hail  her,  and 
the  happy  bridegroom  can  come  o(T  if  he's  so  moiiKhnl, 
being  in  the  hurry  that  he  is.  'Tain't  many  bride- 
grooms that  makes  all  the  haste  he  has  to  Jiue  the 
lady." 

Caius  said  nothing ;  the  subject  was  too  horrible. 

"  Ye  and  yer  bags  could  jist  go  on  board  tlie  ship 
before  the  loving  husband  came  oil ;  ye'd  make  the 
harbolir  that  way  as  easy,  and  I'm  thinking  the  ice  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bay  is  that  tliick  ye'd  be  scared  and 
want  me  to  sit  back  in  my  boat  and  yelp  for  help,  like 
a  froightened  puppy  dog,  instead  of  making  the  way 
through." 

Caius  thouorht  that  O'Shea  mi2:ht  be  trvina:  to  dare 
him  to  remain  in  the  boat,  lie  inclined  to  believe  that 
0'8hea  could  not  alone  enter  into  conflict  with  a  strong 
unscrupulous  man  in  such  a  boat,  in  such  a  sea,  with  hope 
of  success.  At  any  rate,  when  O'Shea,  presuming  on 
his  friendship  with  the  skipper,  had  accomplished  no 
less  a  thing  than  bringing  the  sailing  vessel  -to  a  stand- 
still, Caius  was  prepared  to  board  her  at  once. 

The  little  boat  was  still  among  the  ice,  but  upon  the 
verge  of  clear  water.  The  schooner,  already  near,  was 
drifting  nearer.  O'Shea  was  shouting  to  the  men  on 
her  deck.  The  skipper  stood  there  looking  over  her 
side  ;  he  was  a  short  stout  man,  of  cheery  aspect.     Sev- 


*l 


II 


if? 


in-  '  ! 


■,;!!■   , 


'     t 


256 


THE  MERMAID. 


eral  sailors,  and  one  or  two  other  men  who  mi^ht  be 
passengers,  had  come  to  the  side  also.  J3esidc  the  skipper 
stood  a  big  man  with  a  brown  beard ;  his  very  way  of 
standing  still  seemed  to  suggest  habitual  sluggishness  of 
mind  or  manner ;  yet  his  appearance  at  this  distance  was 
line.  Caius  discovered  that  this  was  Le  Maitre ;  he  was 
surprised,  he  had  supposed  that  he  would  bo  thin  and 
dark. 

"  It's  Captain  Le  Maitre  I've  come  for ;  it's  his  wife 
that's  wanting  to  see  him,"  O'Shea  shouted. 

"  He's  here  ! " 

The  skipper  gave  the  information  cheerfully,  and 
Le  Maitre  made  a  slight  sign  showing  that  it  was  correct. 

"  I'll  just  take  him  back,  then,  in  the  boat  with  me 
now,  for  it's  easy  enough  getting  this  way,  but  there's 
holes  in  the  sand  that  makes  drivin'  unpleasant.  How- 
somever,  I  can't  say  which  is  the  best  passage.  This 
city  gentleman  I've  got  with  me  now  thinks  he's  lost 
his  life  siveral  times  already  since  he  got  into  this 
boat." 

He  pointed  to  Caius  as  he  ended  his  invitation  to  Le 
Maitre.  The  men  on  the  schooner  all  grinned.  It  was 
O'Shea's  manner,  as  well  as  his  words,  that  produced 
their  derision. 

Caius  was  wondering  what  would  happen  if  Le 
Maitre  refused  to  come  in  the  boat.  Suspicion  said 
that  O'Shea  would  cause  the  boat  to  be  towed  ashore,  and 
would  then  take  the  Captain  home  by  the  quicksands. 
Would  O'Shea  make  him  drunk,  and  then  cast  him 
headfirst  into  the  swallowing  sand  ?  It  seemed  j^repos- 
terous  to  be  harbouring  such  thought  against  the  cheer- 
ful and  most  respectable  farmer  at  his  side.  What 
foundation  had  he  for  it  ?    None  but  the  hearing  of  an 


I  I 


1 


"DEATH  SITRIVE    TIIY  SOUL!" 


257 


idle  boast  that  the  man  had  made  one  day  to  liis  wife, 
and  that  slie  in  simpUcity  had  taken  for  earnest. 

Le  Maitre  signified  that  lie  would  go  witli  O'Shea. 
Indeed,  looked  at  from  a  short  distance,  the  })ass{ige 
through  the  ice  did  not  look  so  dillicult  as  it  had 
proved. 

O'Shea  and  Caius  parted  without  word  or  glance  of 
farewell.  Caius  clambered  over  the  sid'^  of  thi'  schooner; 
the  one  thought  in  his  mind  was  to  get  a  nearer  view  of 
Le  ^faitre. 

This  man  was  still  standing  slee|)ily.  lie  did  not 
bear  closer  inspection  well.  His  clothes  were  dirty, 
especially  about  the  front  of  vest  and  coat ;  there  was 
everything  to  suggest  an  entire  lack  of  neatness  in  per- 
sonal habits;  more  than  that,  the  face  at  the  time  bore 
unmistakable  signs  that  enough  alcohol  had  been  drunk 
to  benumb,  although  not  to  stupefy,  his  faculties :  the 
eye  was  bloodshot;  the  face,  weather-beaten  as  it  was, 
was  flabby.  In  spite  of  all  this,  Caius  had  expected  a 
more  villainous-looking  person,  and  so  great  was  his 
loatliing  that  he  v/ould  rather  have  seen  him  in  a  more 
obnoxious  light.  The  man  had  a  certain  dignity  of 
bearing;  his  face  had  that  unfurrowed  look  tiiat  means 
a  low  moral  sense,  for  there  is  no  evidence  of  conflict. 
His  eyes  were  too  near  each  other;  this  last  was,  per- 
haps, the  only  sign  by  which  Nature  from  the  outset 
had  marred  a  really  excellent  piece  of  manly  propor- 
tion. 

Caius  made  these  observations  involuntarily.  As  Le 
Maitre  stepped  here  and  there  in  a  dull  way  while  a 
chest  that  belonged  to  him  was  being  lowered  into  the 
boat,  Caius  could  not  help  realizing  that  his  precon- 
ceived notions  of  the  man  as  a  monster  had  been  ex- 


'■ 


■  rli 
li 


I  i 


mm 


m 


!l 


Its 


258 


THE   MKRMATD. 


ag<?crate(l ;  he  was  a  common  man,  fallen  into  low  habits, 
and  11x0(1  in  them  by  middle  age. 

Le  Maitre  got  into  the  boat  in  soaman-like  fashion. 
lie  was  ])erfectly  at  home  there,  and  dull  as  his  eye 
looked,  he  tacitly  assumed  comnuind.  lie  took  O'Shea's 
pole  from  him,  stepped  to  the  prow,  and  began  to  turn 
the  boat,  without  regarding  tlie  fact  that  O'Slu'a  was 
still  hokling  liasty  conversation  with  the  men  on  the 
schooner  concerning  tlie  public  events  of  the  winter 
months — the  news  they  had  brought  from  tlie  maiidand. 

Everytliing  had  been  done  in  the  greatest  haste;  it 
was  not  twelve  miinites  after  the  schooner  had  ])een 
brouglit  to  a  stand  when  her  sails  wen*  again  turned  to 
catch  the  breeze.  The  reason  for  this  haste  was  to  pre- 
vent more  sideways  drifting,  for  the  schooner  was  drift- 
ing with  the  wind  against  the  iloating  i  amongst  which 
O'Shea's  boat  was  lying.  The  wind  blew  very  softly; 
her  speed  when  sailing  had  not  been  great,  and  the 
drifting  motion  was  the  most  gentle  possible. 

Caius  had  not  taken  his  eves  from  the  boat.  lie 
was  watching  the  strength  with  whi(!h  Le  Maitre  was 
turning  her  and  starting  her  for  ('loud  Island,  lie  was 
watching  O'Shea,  who,  still  giving  back  chatf  and  sar- 
casm to  the  men  on  the  schooner,  was  foiccd  to  turn 
and  pick  up  the  smaller  pole  which  Caius  liad  relin- 
quished; he  seemed  to  be  interested  only  in  his  talk, 
and  to  begin  to  help  in  the  management  of  the  boat 
mechanically.  The  skipper  was  swearing  at  his  men 
and  shouting  to  O'Shea  with  alternate  breath.  The 
sails  of  the  schooner  had  hardly  yet  swelled  with  the 
breeze  when  O'Shea,  bearing  with  all  his  might  against 
a  bit  of  ice,  because  of  a  slip  of  his  pole,  fell  heavily  on 
the  side  of  his  own  boat,  tipping  her  suddenly  over  on  a 


DEATH  SHRIVE  THY  SOUL! 


250 


uibits, 

shion. 
is  t'vc 
Shell's 
0  turn 
.'{I  was 
on  the 
winter 
inland, 
iste  ;  it 
lI  been 
rned  to 
to  pre- 
s  drift- 
t  which 
softly ; 
md  the 

[it.     lie 
tre  was 
lie  was 
md  sar- 
to  turn 
ll  rclin- 
is  talk, 
iie  boat 
Ills  men 
.     The 
•ith  the 
against 
[ivily  on 
rer  on  a 


bit  of  iee  that  sunk  with  lior  weight.  Lc  Maitre,  at  tlio 
prow,  in  the  violent  upsettinf^,  was  seen  to  fail  headlong 
between  two  bits  of  ice  into  the  sea. 

"  By !     Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that?" 

The  skipper  of  the  schooiusr  had  run  to  the  nearest 
point,  which  was  beside  Caius. 

Then  followeil  instantly  a  volley  of  connniinds,  some 
of  which  related  to  thr{»wing  ropes  to  the  small  boat, 
some  concerning  the  movement  of  the  schooner,  for  ut 
this  moment  her  whole  side  pressed  against  all  the  bits 
of  ice,  pushing  them  closer  and  closer  together. 

The  boat  had  not  sunk;  she  had  partially  (illed  with 
water  that  had  llowed  over  the  ice  on  which  she  had 
upset;  but  when  the  weight  of  Le  ^Faitre  was  removed 
and  O'Shea  had  regained  his  bahince,  the  ice  rose  again, 
righting  the  boat  and  almost  instantly  tipping  her 
toward  the  other  side,  for  the  schooner  had  by  this  time 
caused  a  jam.  It  was  not  such  a  jam  as  must  of  neces- 
sity injure  tlie  boat,  which  was  heavily  built ;  but  the 
fact  that  she  was  now  half  full  of  water  and  that  there 
was  only  one  man  to  manage  her,  made  his  situation 
precarious.  The  danger  of  O'Shea,  however,  was  hardly 
noticed  by  the  men  on  the  schooner,  because  of 
the  horrible  fact  that  the  closing  of  the  bits  of  ice 
together  made  it  improbable  that  Le  Maitre  could  rise 
again. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  eager  looking  at  every 
space  of  blue  water  that  was  left.  If  the  drowning 
man  could   swim,  he  would 


aperture. 


rely 


(( 


Put  your  pole  down  to  him  where  ho  went  in 


»> 


The  men  on  the  schooner  shouted  this  to  O'Shea. 
"  Put  the  rope  round  youi 


'I 


H 


■I  i; 


i 


aist !  "     This  last  was 


!   i' 


i: 


2r,o 


THE  MERMAID. 


yt'lk'(l  by  the  nklppor,  perceiving  that  O'Shea  himself 
was  by  no  uieuns  safe. 

A  rope  tliat  had  been  thrown  had  a  noose,  through 
whicli  O'Shea  dashed  his  arms ;  tlien,  seizing  the  poU', 
lie  struck  the  butt-end  between  tlie  blocks  of  ice  where 
Le  iMaitre  Inul  fallen. 

It  seemed  to  Cains  that  the  pole  swayed  in  his  han(U', 
as  if  lie  were  wrencliing  it  from  a  hand  that  had  gripped 
it  strongly  below  ;  but  it  iniglit  have  been  only  the  grind- 
ing of  the  ice. 

O'Shea  thrust  the  pole  Avith  sudden  vehemence  fur- 
ther down,  as  if  in  a  frantic  effort  to  bring  it  better 
within  reach  of  Le  Maitre  if  he  were  there ;  or,  as  Caius 
thought,  it  might  have  been  tliat,  feeling  where  the  man 
was,  he  stunned  him  with  the  blow. 

Standing  in  a  boat  that  was  tipping  and  grinding 
among  the  ice,  O'Siiea  appeared  to  be  exercising  mar- 
vellous force  and  dexterity  in  thus  using  the  pole  at  all. 

The  wind  was  now  propelling  the  schooner  forward, 
and  her  pressure  on  the  ice  ceased.  O'Shea  threw  oil 
the  noose  of  the  rope  wildly,  and  looked  to  the  men  on 
the  vessel,  as  if  quite  uncertain  what  to  do  next. 

It  was  a  difficult  matter  for  anyone  to  decide.  To 
leave  him  there  was  manifestly  impossible ;  but  if  the 
schooner  again  veered  round,  the  jamming  of  the  ice 
over  the  head  of  La  ]\Iaitre  would  again  occur.  The 
men  on  the  schooner,  not  under  good  discipline,  were 
all  shouting  and  talking. 

"  lie's  dead  by  now,  wherever  he  is."  The  skijiper 
made  this  quiet  parenthesis  either  to  himself  or  to 
Caius.  Then  he  shouted  aloud  :  "  Work  your  boat 
through  to  us  ! " 

O'Shea  began  poling  vigorously.     The  ice  was  again 


■■ 


I* 


"DEATH  SIIKIVr:  THY  sorL!" 


'2i'd 


imsclf 


I  rough 

3  poU', 

where 

lunula, 
gripped 
!  griiid- 

icc  fuv- 
i  better 
IS  Cuius 
he  man 

^rindhig 
ng  mtir- 

iit  nil. 
wurd, 

ew  ol? 
men  on 


or 
lir 


de.     To 
if  the 
the  ice 
ir.     The 
ne,  were 

skipper 
If  or  to 
Hir  boat 

JUS  again 


floating  loosely,  and  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  minutog 
to  piKsli  his  lieavy  boat  into  tlie  open  water  that  was  in 
the  wake  of  tiie  sciiooner.  Tiiere  was  a  pause,  like  a 
pause  in  a  funeral  service,  when  O'Shea,  standing  ankle- 
deep  in  the  water  whicii  liis  boat  held,  and  the  men  hud- 
dled together  upon  the  schooner's  deck,  turned  to  look 
at  all  the  places  in  whi(!h  it  seemed  possihle  that  the 
body  of  Le  Maitre  might  again  be  seen.  'I'iiey  looked 
and  looked  nntil  they  were  tired  with  looking.  The 
body  had,  no  doubt,  floated  up  under  some  cake  of  ice, 
and  from  thence  would  speedily  sink  to  a  bier  of  saiul 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bav. 

"  By !  I  never  saw  anything  like  that."    It  was 

the  remar^c  which  began  and  ended  the  episode  with  the 
skipper.  Then  he  raised  his  voice,  and  shouted  to 
OShea  :  "It's  no  sort  of  use  your  staying  here  !  Make 
the  rope  fast  to  your  boat,  and  come  up  on  deck  ! " 

But  this  O'Sliea  would  not  do.  lie  rcjdicd  that  he 
would  remain  and  look  about  among  the  ice  a  bit  longer, 
and  that,  any  way,  it  would  be  twice  as  far  to  take  his 
boat  home  from  Harbour  Island  as  from  the  place  where 
he  now  was.  The  schooner  towed  his  boat  until  he  had 
baled  the  water  out  and  got  hold  of  his  ojirs.  The  ice 
had  floated  so  far  apart  that  it  seemed  easy  for  the  boat 
to  ffo  back  throns^h  it. 

During  this  time  excited  pithy  gossip  had  been  going 
on  concerning  the  accident. 

"  You  did  all  a  man  could  do,"  shouted  the  ca])tain 
to  O'Shea  consolingly,  and  remarked  to  those  about 
him:  "There  wasn't  no  love  lost  between  them,  but 
O'Shea  did  all  he  could.  O'Shea  mifdit  as  easv  as  not 
have  gone  over  himself,  holding  the  pole  under  water 
that  time." 


i.i 


I 


r 

I 


1    t 


!■{ 


h 


'(■! 


1 

! 


k 


'i  ■"'\i 


202 


THE  MERMAID. 


Tlie  fussy  little  captain,  as  far  as  Cains  could  judge, 
was  not  acting  a  part.  'V\\e  sailors  were  French  ;  they 
could  talk  some  English ;  and  they  spoke  in  both  lan- 
guages a  great  deal. 

"  His  lady  Avon't  be  much  troubled,  i  dare  say,  from 
all  I  hear."  Tlie  captain  was  becoming  easy  and  good- 
luitured  again,  lie  said  to  Caius :  "  You  are  acquainted 
with  her?" 

"  She  will  be  shocked,"  said  Caius. 

He  felt  as  he  spoke  that  he  himself  was  sufTering 
from  shock — so  much  so  that  he  was  hardly  able  to 
think  consecutively  about  what  had  occurred. 

"  They  won't  have  an  'nquest  without  the  body," 
shouted  the  captain  to  O'Shea.  Tlien  to  those  about 
him  he  renuirked  :  "  He  was  as  decent  and  good-natured 
a  fellow  as  Fd  want  to  see." 

Tlie  pronoun  referred  to  Le  Maitre.  The  remark 
was  perhaps  prompted  by  natural  pity,  but  it  was  so  in- 
stantly agreed  to  by  all  on  the  vessel  that  the  chorus 
had  the  air  of  propitiating  the  spirit  of  the  dead. 


?& 


X' 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    RIDDLI-:   OF   LIFE. 

The  schooner  slowly  moved  along,  and  lay  not  far 
from  the  steamship.  The  steamship  did  not  start  for 
Soiiris  until  the  afternoon.  Cains  was  put  on  shore 
there  to  a\;ait  the  hour  of  embarking.  In  his  own 
mind  he  v,as  questioning  whether  he  woula  embark 
with  the  steamer  or  return  to  Cloud  Island  ;  but  lie 
naturally  did  not  make  this  problem  known  to  those 
around  him. 

The  skipper  and  several  men  of  the  schooner  came 
ashore  with  Caius.  Tliere  was  a  great  bustle  as  soon  as 
thev  reached  tlie  small  wharf  because  of  what  thev  had 
to  tell.  It  was  apparent  from  all  that  was  told,  and  all 
the  replies  that  wero  made,  that  no  shadow  of  suspi- 
cion was  to  fall  upon  O'Shea.  Why  should  it?  He 
had,  as  it  seemed,  no  personal  grudge  against  \jq  Maitre, 
whose  death  had  been  evidently  an  accident. 

A  man  who  bore  an  otfice  akin  to  that  of  nuigistrate 
for  the  islands  came  down  from  a  nouse  near  the  har- 
bour, and  the  story  was  repeated  to  him.  When  Caius 
luid  listened  to  the  evidence  given  before  this  oflicial 
personage,  hearing  the  tale  again  that  he  had  already 
heard  many  times  in  a  few  minutes,  and  told  what  he 
himself  hr.d  seen,   he  began   to  wonder  how  he  could 


if 


■4  (if     •' 

1;  H  i\p  || 


I ' 


2r4 


THE  MERMAID. 


still  hiirbour  in  his  mind  the  belief  in  O'Shca's  guilt. 
lie  found,  too,  that  none  of  these  people  knew  enough 
about  Josephine  to  see  any  special  interest  attaching  to 
the  story,  exce])t  the  fact  that  her  husband,  returning 
from  a  long  voyage,  had  been  drowned  almost  within 
sight  of  her  house.  "  Ah,  poor  lady  !  poor  lady  !  "  they 
said ;  and  thus  saying,  and  shaking  their  heads,  they 
dispersed  to  eat  their  dinners. 

Caius  procured  the  bundle  of  letters  which  had 
come  for  him  by  this  first  mail  of  the  year.  He  saun- 
tered along  the  beach,  soon  getting  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  th<'  little  community,  who  w^ere  not  given  to 
walking  upon  a  beach  that  w^as  not  in  this  cause  a  high- 
road to  any  place.  He  was  on  the  shingle  n{  the  bay, 
and  he  soon  found  a  nook  under  a  high  black  clilf 
where  the  sun  beat  down  right  w.4rmly.  He  had  not 
opened  his  letters ;  his  mind  did  not  yet  admit  of  old 
interests. 

Tli*'  days  were  not  long  passed  in  which  men  who 
continued  to  be  good  husbands  and  fathers  and  staunch 
friends  killed  their  enemies,  when  necessary,  with  a 
good  conscience.  Had  O'Shea  a  good  conscience  now? 
Would  he  continue  to  be  in  all  respects  the  man  he 
had  been,  and  the  staunch  friend  of  Josephine?  In 
his  heart  Caius  believed  that  Le  Maitre  was  murdered ; 
but  he  had  no  evidence  to  prove  it — nothing  whatever 
but  what  O'Shea's  wife  had  said  to  him  that  day  she 
was  hanging  out  her  linen,  and  such  talk  occurs  in 
many  a  household,  and  nothing  comes  of  it. 

Now  Josephine  was  free.  "  What  a  blessing !  "  He 
used  the  common  idiom  to  himself,  and  then  wondered 
at  it.  Could  one  man's  crime  be  another  man's  bless- 
ing?   He  found   himself,  out   of   love   for   Josephine, 


Sk-l 


TIJK   RIDDLE  OF  LIFE. 


205 


III 


ough 
iig  to 

nthiii 

'  they 

they 

1   had 

saun- 
it  and 
tven  to 
I  high- 
le  bay, 
jk  cliif 
I  ad  not 

of  old 

en  who 
itaunch 
with   a 
e  now  ? 
nan  he 
In 
dered ; 
hatever 
hiy  she 
curs  in 


le? 


?) 


lie 

ondered 

'a  bless- 

»sephine, 


wondering  concerning  tlie  matter  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  religious  theory  of  life.  Perhaps  this  was 
Heaven's  way  of  answering  Josepliine's  appeal,  and  sav- 
ing her;  or  perhaps  human  souls  are  so  knit  together 
that  O'Shea,  by  the  sin,  had  not  blessed,  but  hindered 
her  from  blessing.  It  was  a  weary  round  of  questi(;ns, 
which  Caius  was  not  wise  enough  to  answer.  Another 
more  jiractical  question  pressed. 

Did  he  dare  to  return  now  to  Cloud  Lsland,  and 
watch  over  Josephine  in  the  shock  which  she  must  sus- 
tain, aud  find  out  if  she  would  discover  the  truth  con- 
cerning O'Shea?  After  a  good  while  he  answered  the 
questioii :  No  ;  he  did  not  dare  to  return,  knowing  what 
he  did  and  his  own  cowardly  share  in  it.  lie  coidd  not 
face  Josephine,  and,  lonely  as  slie  was,  she  did  not  need 
him  •  she  iiad  her  prayers,  her  angels,  her  heaven. 

Perhaps  Time,  the  proverbial  healer  of  all  wounds, 
would  wash  the  sense  of  guilt  from  his  soul,  and  then 
he  could  come  back  and  speak  to  Josephine  concerning 
this  new  freedom  of  hers.  Then  he  remembered  that 
some  say  that  for  the  wound  of  guilt  Time  has  no  heal- 
ing art.  Could  he  fintl,  then,  other  shrift?  lie  did 
not  know,  lie  longed  for  it  sorely,  because  he  longed 
to  feel  fit  to  return  to  Josephin<  Hut,  after  all,  what 
had  he  done  of  whi(di  he  was  ashamed  ?  What  was  his 
guilt?  Had  he  felt  any  emotion  that  it  was  not  natu- 
ral to  feelV  Had  he  done  anvthinu;  wrong:  Aijain  he 
did  not  know.  He  sat  with  head  bowed,  and  felt  in 
dull  misery  that  O'Shea  was  a  better  man  than  he — 
more  useful  and  brave,  and  not  more  guilty. 

He  opened  his  letters,  and  found  that  in  his  absence 
no  worse  mishap  had  occurred  at  home  than  that  his 
father  had  been  laid  up  some  time  with  a  bad  leg,  and 


.  ■'' 


^m 


i 

m 

m' 

1  ' 

ml 

[ 

J^M         '\ 

I 

ml 

is/   \ 

M  ^^ 


hi'  'H        > 


il 


:li 


2GG 


THE  MERMAID. 


that  both  father  and  mother  had  allowed  themselves  to 
"vvorrv  and  i'rot  lest  ill  should  have  befallen  their  son. 

Cains  embarked  on  the  little  steamship  that  after- 
noon, and  the  next  noon  found  him  at  home. 

The  person  who  met  him  on  the  threshold  of  his 
father's  house  was  Jim  Ilogan.     Jim  grinned. 

"  Since  you've  taken  to  charities  abroad,"  he  said, 
"  I  thought  rd  begin  at  home." 

Jim's  method  of  beginning  at  home  was  not  in  the 
literal  sense  of  the  proverb.  It  turned  out  that  he  had 
been  neighbouring  to  some  purpose.  Old  Simpson 
could  not  move  himself  about  indoors  or  attend  to  his 
work  without,  and  Jim,  who  had  not  before  this  at- 
tached himself  ])y  regular  em})loyment,  had  by  some 
freak  of  good-nature  given  his  services  day  by  day  until 
Caius  should  return,  and  had  become  un  indispensable 
member  of  the  household. 

"  He's  not  a  very  respectable  young  man,"  said  the 
mother  apologetically  to  her  son,  while  she  was  still 
wiping  her  tears  of  joy  ;  "  bnt  it's  just  wonderful  what 
patience  he's  had  in  his  own  larky  way  with  your  father, 
when,  though  1  say  it  who  shouldn't,  your  father's  been 
as  difficult  to  manage  as  a  crying  baby,  and  Jim,  he 
just  makes  his  jokes  when  anyone  else  would  have  been 
atfronted,  and  there's  father  laughing  in  spite  of  himself 
wsometimes.  So  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  we've  just 
had  him  to  stop  on,  for  he's  took  to  the  farm  wonder- 
ful." 

An  hour  after,  when  alone  with  his  father,  Simpson 
said  to  him  : 

"  Your  mother,  you  know,  was  timorous  at  night 
when  I  conldn't  help  myself  ;  and  then  she'c  b^^gin  cry- 
ing, as  women  will,  saying  as  she  knew  you  were  dead, 


THE   RIDDLE   OF   LIFE. 


2f;7 


vcs  to 

JU. 

iifter- 


of  lui5 

e  said, 

in  the 
he  had 
iinpson 
1  to  his 
this  at- 
>v  some 
ay  until 
lensable 

t^aid  the 
,vas  still 
ul  what 
r  father, 
n''s  been 
Jim,  he 
ve  been 
liimself 
''ve  just 
wonder- 

ISimpson 

lat  night 
pgin  cry- 
^re  dead, 


and  t]iat,  any  way,  it  was  lonesome  without  you.  So 
when  I  saw  that  it  comforted  her  a  bit  to  liave  someone 
to  cook  for,  I  encouraged  the  fellow,  1  told  iiim  he'd 
nothing  to  look  for  from  me,  for  his  father  is  richer 
than    I  am   nowadays  ;   but  he's  just   the  sort  to   like 


vagary 


i> 


Jim  went  home,  and  Caius  began  a  simple  round  of 
home  duties.  His  father  needed  much  attendance  ;  the 
farm  servants  needed  direction.  Caius  soon  found  out, 
without  being  told,  that  neither  in  one  capacity  nor  the 
other  did  he  fulfil  the  old  man's  pleasure  nearly  so  well 
as  the  rough-and-ready  Jim.  Even  his  motlier  hardly 
let  a  day  pass  without  innocently  aHuding  to  some 
prank  of  Jim's  that  had  amused  her.  She  would  have 
been  verv  anijrv  if  anvone  had  told  her  that  she  did  not 
find  her  son  as  good  a  companion.  Caius  did  not  tell 
her  so,  but  ho  was  perfectly  aware  of  it. 

Caius  had  not  been  loni(  at  home  when  his  cousin 
Mabel  came  to  visit  them.  This  time  his  mother  made 
no  slv  remarks  concernini]^  Mabel's  reason  for  timinsT:  her 
visit,  because  it  seemed  that  Mabel  had  paid  a  long  and 
comforting  visit  while  he  had  been  at  the  Magdalen 
Islands.  Mabel  did  not  treat  Caius  now  with  the  un- 
conscious flattery  of  blind  admiration,  neither  did  she 
talk  to  him  about  Jim  ;  but  her  silence  whenever  Jim's 
name  was  mentioned  was  eloquent. 

Caius  •ummed  all  this  up  in  his  own  mind,  lie  iiiul 
Jim  had  commenced  life  as  lads  together.  The  one  had 
trodder  t)-  ^  path  of  virtue  and  laudable  a?nbition  ;  tlu! 
ot^'.  liad  just  amused  himself,  and  that  in  many  rep- 
reiiensible  ways;  and  now,  when  the  ri[)e  age  of  man- 
hood wa.'  attained  in  that  state  of  life  to  which — as  the 

Cateciiism  would  have  it — it  had   pleased   (Jod   to  call 
18 


208 


THE   MERMAID. 


I 


them,  it  was  Jim  who  was  tlie  nseful  and  lionoiired  man, 
not  Cuius. 

It  was  clear  tliat  all  the  months  and  years  of  his 
absence  had  enabled  his  parents  to  do  very  well  with- 
out their  son.  They  did  not  know  it,  but  in  all  the 
smaller  things  that  make  u})  the  most  of  life,  his  in- 
terests had  ceased  to  be  their  interests.  Caius  had  the 
courage  to  realize  that  even  at  home  he  was  not  much 
wanted.  If,  when  Jim  married  ^label,  he  would  settle 
down  with  the  old  folks,  they  would  be  perfectly  happy. 

On  his  return,  Caius  had  lejirned  that  the  ])ost  for 
which  he  had  ai)plied  in  the  autumn  had  not  been 
awai'ded  to  him.  lie  knew  that  he  must  2:0  as  soon  as 
possible  to  find  out  a  good  place  in  which  to  begin  his 
professional  life,  but  at  present  the  state  of  liis  father's 
bad  IciT  was  so  critical,  and  the  medical  skill  of  the 
neighbourhood  so  poor,  that  he  was  forced  to  wait. 

All  this  time  there  was  one  main  thought  in  his 
mi'id,  to  which  all  others  were  subordinate.  He  saw 
liis  situation  (|uite  clearly  ;  lie  had  no  doubts  about  it, 
If  Jose])hino  would  come  to  him  and  be  Ips  wife,  he 
would  be  ha[)py  and  prosperous.  Josephine  had  the 
power  to  make  him  twice  the  man  he  was  without  her. 
It  was  not  only  that  his  happiness  was  bound  u])  in  her; 
it  was  not  only  that  Josephine  had  money  and  could 
manage  it  well,  although  he  was  not  at  all  above  think- 
ing of  that ;  it  was  not  even  that  she  would  help  and 
entourage  and  console  iiim  as  no  one  else  would. 
There  was  that  subtle  something,  more  often  the  fruit 
of  what  is  called  friendship  than  of  love,  by  which  Jo- 
sejdiine's  presence  increased  all  his  strong  faculties  and 
subdued  his  faults.  Caius  knew  this  with  the  unerring 
knowledge  of  instinct,     lie  tried  to  reason  ab(»ut  it,  too  : 


man, 

A  liis 

with- 
Jl  the 
lis  in- 
ad  tlie 

much 
I  settle 

happy- 
lost  for 
)t   been 
soon  as 
HTiu  his 
lather's 
I  of  tlie 
lit. 

t  in  his 
He  saw 
ibout  it- 
wife,  he 
lliatl  the 
loiit  her. 
her : 


V  m 


[ul  could 
:  th inli- 


ne 


IP 


aiu 


1 


wou 


1(1. 

Ithe  fruit 
ihich  Jo- 
Ities  and 


iiiierrin 
i\l  it,  too 


ft 


T[IE   RIDDLE  OF   LIFE. 


201) 


even  a  dull  kini]^  rci^^ns  well  if  he  have  but  the  wit  to 
choose  good  ministers;  aiul  amon<j^  men,  each  ruling  his 
small  kingdom,  they  are  ofte?^  the  most  successful  who 
possess,  not  many  talents,  but  the  one  talent  of  choosing 
well  in  friendship  and  in  love. 

Ah  !  but  it  is  one  thing  to  choose  and  another  to 
obtain.  Caius  still  felt  that  he  dared  not  seek  Joseph- 
ine. Since  Le  Maitre's  death  something  of  the  lirst 
blank  horror  of  his  own  guilt  had  passed  away,  but  still 
he  knew  that  he  was  not  innocent.  Then,  too,  if  he 
dared  to  woo  her,  what  would  be  the  result?  That 
last  admonition  and  warning  that  he  had  given  her 
when  she  was  about  to  leave  the  island  with  him  clogged 
his  hope  when  he  sought  to  take  courage,  lie  knew 
tliat  popular  lore  declared  that,  whether  or  not  slie  ac- 
knowledged its  righteousness,  her  woman's  vanity  would 
take  arms  against  it. 

Caius  had  written  to  Joseidnne  a  letter  of  common 
friendliness  upon  the  occasion  of  her  husband's  death, 
and  had  received  in  return  a  brief  sedate  note  that 
might,  indeed,  have  been  written  by  the  ancient  lady 
whom  the  quaint  Italian  handwriting  learned  in  the 
country  convent  had  at  first  figured  to  his  imagination. 
He  knew  from  this  letter  that  Josephine  did  not  sup- 
pose that  blame  attached  to  O'Sliea.  She  spoke  of  her 
husband's  death  as  an  accident.  Caius  knew  that  she 
had  acce^-ted  it  as  n  deliverance  from  Cod.  It  was  this 
attitude  of  hers  wnich  made  the  whole  circumstance 
appear  to  him  the  more  solemn. 

So  Caius  waited  through  the  lovely  season  in  wliieh 
summer  hovers  with  warm  sunshiny  wings  over  a  land 
of  flowers  before  she  settles  down  upon  it  to  abide.  11(3 
was  unhappy.     A  shade,  whose  name  was  Failure,  lived 


H  i; 


270 


THE   MERMAID. 


with  him  diiv  bv  diiv,  and  spoke  to  liini  concerninfj  the 
future  as  well  us  the  })5Lst.  Dehtitiiig  much  in  his  mind 
wluit  lie  might  do,  fearing  to  make  his  ])ligiit  worse  by 
doing  anytliing,  lie  grew  timid  at  the  very  thought  of 
addressing  Josephine.  nap])ily,  there  is  something 
nu)re  merciful  to  a  nuin  than  his  own  self — something 
which  in  his  hour  of  need  assists  him,  and  that  often 
very  bountifully. 


•i      ,'.i 


* 


fL           -fl 

1  i  ^i- 

\l}   I 

:  f  "^ 

f    1 

1  !   '!-:< 

k 

1 

« 

CHAPTER   XII. 


TO   CALL   A    SPIRIT    FROM   THE    VASTY    PEEP. 


il 


It  was  when  tlie  first  wild-flowers  of  the  year  had 
passed  away,  and  scarlet  columbine  and  meadow-rue 
waved  lightly  in  the  sunny  glades  of  the  woods,  imd  all 
the  world  was  green — the  new  and  perfect  green  of  June 
— that  one  afternoon  Caius,  at  his  father's  door,  met  a 
visitor  who  was  most  rarely  seen  there.  It  was  Farmer 
Day.  He  accosted  Caius,  perhaps  a  little  sheepishly,  but 
witli  an  obvious  desire  to  be  civil,  for  he  had  a  favour  to 
ask  which  he  evidently  considered  of  greater  magnitude 
than  C[iius  did  when  he  heard  what  it  was.  Day's  wife 
was  ill.  The  doctor  of  the  locality  had  said  more  than 
once  that  she  would  not  live  many  days,  but  she  had 
gone  on  living  some  time,  it  appeared,  since  this  had 
been  first  said.  Day  did  not  now  call  upon  Caius  as  a 
medical  man.  His  wife  had  taken  a  fancy  to  see  him 
because  of  his  remembered  efforts  to  save  her  child. 
Day  said  apologetically  that  it  was  a  woman's  whim,  but 
he  would  be  obliged  if  Caius,  at  his  convenience,  would 
call  upon  her.  It  spoke  much  for  the  long  peculiarity 
and  dreariness  of  Day's  domestic  life  that  he  evidently 
believed  that  this  would  be  a  disagreeable  thing  for  Caius 
to  do. 

Day   went    on   to   the   village.      Caius   strolled   ofT 

271 


272 


THE   M  HUM  A  ID. 


i   i 


.,,  i 


through  tlie  wiirrii  woods  unci  iiuro^s  thu  hot  cliiTs  to 
iiiiikc  this  visit. 

The  woman  wjls  not  in  bed.  She  was  dviiiLi"  of  con- 
sumption.  Tiie  fever  wan  flieixeriui!;  in  her  lii,if]»-boiied 
clieeks  when  slie  opened  the  (h)or  of  the  desohite  farm- 
house. She  wore  a  brown  ealieo  <,^own  ;  her  abumhmt 
bhi(;k  liair  was  not  yet  streaked  with  gray.  Caius  could 
not  see  that  she  looked  much  older  than  she  had  done 
U])on  the  evening,  years  ago,  when  he  liad  first  had  rea- 
son to  observe  her  closely,  lie  remembered  what  Jo- 
sephine had  told  him — that  time  had  stood  still  with  her 
since  that  night :  it  seemed  true  in  more  senses  th;in 
one.  A  light  of  satisfaction  showed  itself  in  her  dark 
face  when,  after  a  moment's  inspection,  she  realized  who 
he  was. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  briefly. 

Caius  went  in,  and  had  reason  to  regret,  as  well  on 
his  own  account  as  on  liers,  that  she  shut  the  door.  To 
be  out  in  the  summer  would  have  been  long'^r  life  for 
her,  and  to  have  the  summer  shut  out  made  him  realize 
forcibly  that  ho  was  alone  in  the  desolate  house  with  a 
woman  whose  madness  gave  her  a  weird  seeming  which 
was  almost  equivalent  to  ghostliness. 

When  one  enters  a  house  from  which  the  public  has 
long  been  excluded  and  which  is  the  abode  of  a  person 
of  deranged  mind,  it  is  perhaps  natural  to  expect,  al- 
though unconsciously,  that  the  interior  arrangements 
should  be  very  strange.  Instead  of  this,  the  house, 
gloomy  and  sparsely  furnished  as  it  was,  was  clean  and 
in  order.  It  lacked  everything  to  make  it  pleasant — air, 
sunshine,  and  any  cheerful  token  of  comfort ;  but  it  was 
only  in  this  dreary  negation  that  it  failed  ;  there  was  no 
positive  fault  to  be  found  even  with  the  atmosphere  of 


m 


iTs  to 

'  oon- 
boned 
funn- 

lluliUlt 

,  could 
I  done 
id  ri'ii- 
iiit  Jo- 
ith  her 
■s  tlr.in 
■iV  dark 
ed  who 


well  on 
br.  To 
life  for 


re 
wi 


w 


idize 
th  a 
liich 


)lic  has 

person 

beet,  al- 

rements 

house, 
■an  and 
Int — air, 
it  it  was 

was  no 
lliere  of 


TO  CALL  A   SPIRIT   FROM   Till-:   VAS'I'V    I)KK1>.    073 

tiie  kitclien  and  bare  lobl)y  througli  wliieh  lie  was  con- 
ducted, and  he  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  was 
to  be  entertained  in  a  small  ])arl()ur,  which  had  a  round 
polished  centre  table,  on  wliich  lay  the  usual  store  of 
such  things  as  are  seen  in  such  })arlours  all  the  woi-ld 
over — a  liible,  a  couple  of  albums,  a  woollen  nuit,  and  an 
ornament  under  a  glass  case. 

Caius  sat  down,  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  with  an 
odd  feeling  that  he  was  acting  a  part  in  bcha\ing  as  if 
the  circumstan(;es  were  at  all  ordinary. 

The  woman  also  sat  down,  but  not  as  if  for  ease. 
She  drew  one  of  the  big  cheap  albums  towards  her,  a'nd 
began  vigorously  searching  in  it  from  the  beginning,  as 
if  it  were  a  book  of  strano-e  characters  in  which  she 

CD 

wished  to  find  a  particular  passage.  She  tixcd  her  eyes 
ui)on  each  small  cheaj)  photograph  in  turn,  as  if  trying 
hard  to  remember  who  it  represented,  and  whether  it 
was,  or  was  not,  the  one  she  wanted,  ('aius  looked  on 
amazed. 

At  length,  about  the  middle  of  the  book,  she  came 
to  a  portrait  at  which  she  stop])ed,  and  with  a  look  of 
cunning  took  out  another  which  was  hidden  under  it, 
and  thrust  it  at  (;aius. 

"  It's  for  you,"  she  said;  " it's  mine,  and  I'm  going 
to  die,  and  it's  vou  I'll  give  it  to." 

She  looked  and  spoke  as  if  the  proffered  gift  was  a 
thing  more  precious  than  the  rarest  gem. 

Caius  took  it,  and  saw  that  it  was  a  picture  of  a 
baby  girl,  about  three  years  old.  lie  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  who  the  child  was  ;  he  stood  by  the 
window  and  exaiained  it  long-  and  eagcrlv.  The  sun, 
unaided  by  ihe  deceptive  shading  of  the  more  skilled 
photographer,  had    imprinted    the   little   face    clearly. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


,V4 


1.0 


I.I 


UiUB     |2.S 

|50     ■^"        ■■■ 

•^  1^    12.2 
2.0 


1.8 


1.25  II  1.4 

^ 

^ 

6"     — 

► 

Hiotographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


33  WfST  MAIN  STREiET 

WEBSTEt.N.Y.  MStO 

(716)  873-4S03 


f 


£ 


274 


THE  MERMAID. 


i 


I : 


< 


Cuius  saw  tlie  curls,  iind  the  big  sad  eyes  with  their 
long  hishes,  and  all  the  babv  features  and  limbs,  liis 
memory  niding  to  make  the  portrait  perfect.  His 
eager  look  was  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether 
or  not  his  imagination  had  i)layed  him  false ;  but  it 
was  true  what  he  had  thought — the  little  one  was  like 
Josephine. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  it,"  he  said — "  very  glad." 

"  I  had  it  taken  at  Montrose,"  said  the  poor  motlier; 
and,  strange  to  say,  she  said  it  in  a  commonplace  way, 
just  as  any  woman  might  speak  of  procuring  her  child's 
likeness.  "  Day,  he  Avas  angry  ;  he  said  it  was  waste  of 
money;  that's  why  I  give  it  to  you."  A  tierce  cunning 
look  flitted  again  across  her  face  for  a  moment.  "  Don't 
let  him  see  it,"  she  whispered.  "  Day,  he  is  a  bad  father; 
he  don't  care  for  the  children  or  me.  That's  why  I've 
put  her  in  the  water." 

She  made  tliis  last  statement  concerning  her  hus- 
band and  child  with  a  nonchalant  air,  like  one  too 
much  accustomed  to  the  facts  to  be  distressed  at  them. 

For  a  few  minutes  it  seemed  that  she  relapsed  into 
a  state  of  dulness,  neither  thought  nor  feeling  stirring 
within  her.  Caius,  sujiposing  that  she  had  nothing 
more  to  sav,  still  watched  her  intently,  because  the 
evidences  of  disease  were  interesting  to  him.  AVhen 
he  least  ex})ected  it,  she  awoke  again  into  eagerness; 
she  put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  leaned  towards 
him. 

"  There's  something  I  want  you  to  do,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  I  can't  do  it  any  more.  I'm  dying.  Since  I 
began  dying,  I  can't  get  into  the  water  to  look  for  her. 
My  baby  is  in  the  water,  you  know ;  I  put  her  in.  She 
isn't  dead,  but  she's  there,  only  I  can't  find  her.     Day 


TO  CALL   A  SPIRIT  PROM  THE  VASTV   DEEP.    075 


told  nic  that  once  you  got  into  the  water  to  look  for  her 
too,  but  you  gave  it  up  too  easy,  and  :io  one  else  has 
ever  so  much  as  got  in  to  help  nie  tind  her." 

The  last  part  of  the  speech  was  spoken  in  a  dreary 
monotone.  She  stopped  with  a  heart-broken  sigh  that 
expressed  hopeless  loneliness  in  this  mad  quest. 

"  The  baby  is  dead,"  he  said  gently. 

She  answered  him  with  eager,  excited  voice : 

"  No,  she  isn't;  that's  where  you  are  wrong.  You 
put  it  on  the  stone  that  she  was  dead.  When  I  came 
out  of  th'  asvlum  I  went  to  look  at  the  stone,  and  1 
laughed.  But  1  liked  you  to  make  the  stone;  that's 
why  1  like  vou,  because  nobodv  else  put  up  a  stone  for 
her." 

Caius  laid  a  cool  hand  on  the  feverish  one  she  was 
now  brandisliing  at  him. 

"  Vou  are  dying,  you  say  " — pityingly.  "  It  is  bet- 
ter for  you  to  think  that  vour  babv  is  dead,  for  when 
you  die  you  will  go  to  her." 

The  woman  laughed,  not  harshly,  but  happily. 

"  She  isn't  dead.  She  came  buck  to  me  once.  She 
was  grown  a  big  girl,  and  had  a  wedding-ring  on  her 
hand.  Who  do  you  think  she  was  married  to?  I 
thought  perhaps  it  was  you." 

The  repetition  of  this  old  question  came  from  her 
lips  so  suddenly  that  Caius  dropped  her  hand  and 
stepped  back  a  pace,  lie  felt  his  heart  beating.  A\'as 
it  a  good  omen  ?  There  have  been  cases  where  a  half- 
crazed  brain  has  been  known,  by  chance  or  otherwise, 
to  foretell  the  future.  The  question  that  was  now  for 
the  second  time  repeated  to  him  seemed  to  hi^  iiope  like 
an  instance  of  this  second  sight,  only  half  understood 
by  the  eye  that  saw  it. 


'  J 


p 


I'- ' 
I'  * 


270 


tup:  mermaid. 


*'  It  was  not  your  liult;  daughter  that  came  back, 
Mrs.  Day.  It  was  her  cousin,  wlio  is  very  like  lier,  and 
she  came  to  help  you  when  you  were  ill,  and  to  be  a 
daughter  to  you." 

h'he  looked  at  him  darkly,  as  if  the  saner  powers  of 
her  mind  were  struggling  to  understand ;  but  in  a 
minute  the  monomania  had  again  possession  of  her. 

"  She  had  beautiful  hair,"  she  said  ;  "  I  stroked  it 
with  my  hand  ;  it  curled  just  as  it  used  to  do.  })o  you 
think  I  don't  knov;  my  own  child?  liut  she  had  grown 
quite  big,  and  her  ring  was  made  of  gold.  I  would  like 
to  see  her  again  now  before  1  die." 

Very  wistfully  she  spoke  of  the  beauty  and  kindness 
of  the  girl  whose  visit  had  cheered  her.  The  poor  crazed 
heart  was  full  of  longing  for  the  one  presence  that  could 
give  her  any  comfort  this  side  of  death. 

"  1  thought  I'd  never  see  her  again."  She  fixed  her 
dark  eyes  on  Cains  as  she  spoke.  ''  I  was  going  to  ask 
you,  after  I  was  dead  and  couldn't  look  for  her  any 
more,  if  you'd  keep  on  looking  for  her  in  the  sea  till 
you  found  her.  But  I  wish  you'd  go  now  and  see  if 
you  couldn't  fetch  her  before  I  die." 

"  Yes,  1  will  go,"  answered  Caius  suddenly. 

The  strong  determination  of  his  (piick  assent  seemed 
to  surprise  even  her  in  whose  mind  there  could  be  no 
rational  cause  for  surprise. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.     I  will  go,  Mrs.  Day." 

A  moment  more  she  paused,  as  if  for  time  for  full 
belief  in  his  promise  to  dawn  upon  her,  and  then, 
instead  of  letting  him  go,  she  rose  up  quickly  with 
mysterious  looks  and  gestures.  Her  words  were  whis- 
pered : 


TO  CALL    A   SPIRIT   FROM   THE   VASTY   DKEP. 


back, 

',  and 

be  a 

ers  of 
.  in  a 
jr. 

)ked  it 

[)o  vou 

grown 

lUl  like 

iudness 
r  crazed 
at  could 

ixed  her 

g  to  ask 

ler  any 

sea  till 

see  if 


seemed 
Id  be  no 


for  full 
lid  tUen, 
klv  with 
ere  whis- 


*'  Come,  then,  and  Til  show  you  the  way.  Come ; 
you  mustn't  tell  Day.  Day  doesn't  know  anything  about 
it."  She  had  led  liiin  back  to  the  door  of  the  house 
and  gone  out  before  him.  "  Come,  I'll  show  you  the 
way.  Hush!  don't  taiK,  or  someone  might  hear  us. 
Walk  close  to  the  barn,  and  no  one  will  see.  I  never 
showed  anyone  before  but  her  »vhen  she  came  to  mo 
wearing  tlie  gold  ring.  What  are  you  so  slow  for? 
Come,  I'll  show  you  the  way  to  look  for  her." 


Ii 


ins:  her 


Lmpeiieu  by  curiosity  ana  tne  lear  or  increasii 
excitement  if  he  refused,  Caius  followed  her  down  the 
side  of  the  open  yard  in  which  he  had  once  seen  her 
stand  in  fierce  quarrel  with  her  husbantl.  It  had  seemed 
a  dreary  place  then,  when  the  three  children  swung  on 
the  gate  and  neither  the  shadow  of  death  nor  madness 
hung  over  it ;  it  seemed  far  more  desolate  now,  in  spite 
of  the  bright  summer  sunliglit.  The  barns  and  stable, 
as  they  swiftly  j)assed  them,  looked  much  neglected,  and 
there  was  not  about  the  whole  farmsteael  another  n».in  or 
woman  to  be  st^en.  As  the  mad  woman  went  swiftly 
in  front  of  him,  Caius  remembered,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  al'  these  years,  that  after  her  husband  had  struck 
her  upon  that  night,  she  had  gone  up  to  the  cowshed 
thftt  w{is  nearest  the  sea,  and  that  afterwards  he  had  met 
her  at  the  door  of  the  root-house  that  was  in  the  bank 
of  the  chine.  It  was  thither  she  went  now,  opening  the 
door  of  the  cowshed  and  leading  him  through  it  to  a 
door  at  the  other  end,  and  down  a  path  to  this  cellar 
cut  in  the  bank. 

The  cellar  had  apparently  been  very  little  used.  The 
path  to  it  was  well  beaten,  but  Caius  observed  that  it 
ran  past  the  cellar  down  the  chine  to  a  landing  where 
Day  now  kept  a  flat-bottomed  boat.     They  stood  on  this 


ih 


I'  \     ^1 


■  I  ;1t  ■ 


it 


1\  ^ 

Itl! 


278 


THE  MERMAID. 


path  before  the  heavy  door  of  tlie  collar.  Rust  had 
eaten  into  the  iron  latch  and  the  padlock  that  secured 
it,  but  the  woman  produced  a  key  and  ojiened  the  ring 
of  the  lock  and  took  him  into  a  chamber  about  twelve 
feet  square,  in  which  props  of  decaying  beams  held  up 
the  earth  of  the  walls  and  roof.  The  i)lace  was  cold, 
smelling  strongly  of  damp  earth  and  decaying  roots; 
but,  so  far,  there  was  nothing  remarkable  to  be  seen ; 
just  such  a  cellar  was  used  on  his  father's  farm  to 
keep  stores  of  potatoes  and  turnips  in  wlien  the  fiost 
of  winter  made  its  way  through  all  the  wooden  barns. 
In  three  corners  remains  of  such  root  stores  were  lying ; 
in  the  fourth,  the  corner  behind  the  door,  nearest  the 
sea,  some  boards  were  laid  on  the  floor,  and  on  them 
flower-pots  containing  stalks  of  withered  plants  and 
bulbs  that  had  never  sprouted. 

"  They're  mine,"  she  said.  "  Day  dursn't  touch  them ;" 
and  saying  this,  she  fell  to  work  wuth  eager  feverish- 
ness,  removing  the  pots  and  boards.  When  she  had 
done  so,  it  was  revealed  that  the  earth  under  the  boards 
had  broken  through  into  another  cellar  or  cave,  in 
which  some  light  could  be  seen. 

"  I  always  heard  the  sea  when  I  was  in  this  place, 
and  one  day  1  broke  through  this  hole.  The  man  that 
first  had  the  farm  made  it,  I  s'pose,  to  pitch  his  seaweed 
into  from  the  sliore." 

She  let  her  long  figure  down  through  the  hole  easily 
enough,  for  there  were  places  to  set  the  feet  on,  and 
landed  on  a  heap  of  earth  and  dried  weed.  When  Caius 
had  dropped  down  into  this  second  chamber,  he  saw  that 
it  had  evidently  been  used  for  just  the  purpose  she  had 
mentioned.  The  seaweed  gathered  from  the  beach  after 
storms  was  in  common  use  for  enriching  the  fields,  and 


5t  had 
L'cured 
le  ring 
twelve 
eld  up 
8  cold, 

roots ; 
)  seen ; 
arm  to 
lc  fibst 

barns. 

est  the 
I  them 
its  and 

them;" 
?verish- 
;he  had 
boards 
•ave,  in 

place, 
m  that 
seaweed 

easily 
)n,  and 

Cains 
aw  that 
she  had 
:h  after 
Ids,  and 


TO  CALL  A   SPIRIT   FROM  TllH   VASTY   DEKP.    079 

someone  in  a  past  generation  had  apparently  dug  this 
cave  in  the  soft  rock  and  clav  of  tiie  clitT;  it  was  at 
a  height  above  the  sea-line  at  which  the  seaweed  could 
be  conveniently  pitched  into  it  from  a  cart  on  the  shore 
below.  Some  three  or  four  feet  of  dry  rotten  seaweed 
formed  its  carpet.  The  aperture  towards  the  sea  was 
almost  ej\tirely  overgrown  with  such  grass  and  weeds 
as  grew  on  the  blulT.  It  was  evident  that  in  the  original 
cutting  there  had  been  an  opening  also  sideways  into  the 
chine,  which  had  caved  in  and  been  grown  over.  The 
cellar  above  had,  no  doubt,  been  made  by  someone  who 
was  not  aware  of  th    existence  of  this  former  })lace. 

To  Caius  the  seci  t  chamber  was  enchanted  ground. 
lie  stepped  to  its  window,  framed  in  waving  grasses, 
and  saw  the  high  tide  lapping  just  a  little  way  below. 
It  was  into  this  place  of  safety  that  Josephine  had  crej)t 
when  she  had  disappeared  from  his  view  before  he  could 
mount  the  cliff  to  see  whither  she  went.  She  had  often 
stood  where  lie  now  stood,  half  afraid,  half  audacious, 
in  that  curious  dress  of  hers,  before  she  summoned  up 
courage  to  slip  into  the  sea  for  daylight  or  moonlight 
wanderings. 

He  turned  round  to  hear  tlie  gaunt  woman  beside 
him  again  talking  excitedly.  Upon  a  bit  of  rusty  iron 
that  still  held  its  place  on  the  wall  hung  what  he  had 
taken  to  be  a  heap  of  sacking.  She  took  this  down  now 
and  displayed  it  with  a  cunning  look. 

"I  made  it  myself,"  she  said,  "  it  holds  one  up  won- 
derful in  the  water;  but  now  I've  been  a-dying  so  long 
the  buoys  have  burst." 

Caius  pityingly  took  the  garment  from  her.  Her 
mad  grief,  and  another  woman's  madcap  pleasure, 
made  it  a  sacred  thing.    His  extreme  curiosity  found 


',  ji 


'I    r 


I    I. 


1:    I 


i    . 
?!  i]    ^ 

■  lj 

280 


THE  MEKMAID. 


satisfaction  in  discovering  that  the  coarse  foundation 
was  covered  with  a  curious  broiderv  of  such  small 
floats  as  might,  with  uiitiring  industry,  be  collected  in  a 
farmhouse :.  corks  and  small  pieces  of  wood  with  holes 
bored  through  them  were  fastened  at  regular  intervals, 
not  without  some  attempt  at  pattern,  and  between  them 
the  bladders  of  smaller  animals,  pre})ared  as  fishermen 
prepare  them  lor  their  nets.  Larger  specimens  of  the 
saine  kind  were  concealed  inside  the  neck  of  the  huge 
sack,  but  on  the  outside  everything  was  comparatively 
small,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  hands  that  had  worked  it 
so  elaborately  had  been  directed  by  a  brain  in  which 
familiarity  with  patchwork,  and  other  homely  forms  of 
the  sewing-woman's  art,  had  been  confused  with  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  rough  use  for  which  the  garment 
was  needed.  Some  knowledge  of  the  skill  with  which 
fishermen  prepare  their  floats  had  also  evidently  been 
hers,  for  the  whole  outside  of  the  garment  was  smeared 
or  painted  with  a  brownish  substance  that  had  preserved 
it  to  a  wonderful  extent  from  the  ravages  of  moisture 
and  salt.  It  was  torn  now,  or,  rather,  it  seemed  that  it 
had  been  cut  from  top  to  bottom  ;  but,  besides  this  one 
great  rent,  it  was  in  a  rotten  condition,  ready  to  fall  to 
pieces,  and,  as  the  dying  woman  had  said,  many  of  the 
air-blown  floats  had  burst. 

Caius  was  wondering  whether  the  occasion  on  which 
this  curious  bathing-dress  had  been  torn  was  that  in 
which  he,  by  pursuing  Josephine,  had  forced  her  to 
cease  pushing  herself  about  in  shallow  water  and  take 
to  more  ordinary  swimming.  He  looked  around  and 
saAV  the  one  other  implement  which  had  been  necessary 
to  complete  the  strange  outfit ;  it,  too,  was  a  thing  of 
ordinary  appearance  and  use  :  a  long  pole  or  poker,  with 


TO  CALL  A  SI»IRIT   FROM  THK  VASTY  DEEP.    OS  I 


elation 

Bmull 

3(1  in  a 

I  holes 
tervals, 
ti  them 
iiermen 

of  the 
0  luige 
rutively 
)rked  it 

II  which 
orms  of 
with  an 
crarmcnt 
ii  whicli 
\\y  been 
smeared 
reserved 

iioisture 
that  it 

til  is  one 
fall  to 

y  of  the 

[)n  which 
that  in 
her  to 
Ind  take 
Inid  and 
jiecessary 
^hing  of 
Lcr,  with 


a  handle  at  one  end  and  a  small  flat  bar  at  the  other,  a 
thing  nsed  for  arranging  the  tire  in  the  deep  brick  ovena 
that  were  still  in  use  at  the  older  farmsteads.  It  was 
about  six  feet  long.  The  woman,  seeing  his  attention 
directed  to  it,  took  it  eagerly  and  showed  how  it  miglit 
be  used,  drawing  him  with  her  to  tlie  aj)erture  over  the 
shore  ^md  pointing  out  eagerly  tlie  landmarks  by  whicli 
she  knew  how  far  the  sliallow  water  extended  at  certain 
times  of  the  tide.  Her  topographical  knowledge  of  all 
the  sea's  bed  within  jibout  a  mile  of  the  high-water  mark 
was  extraordinarilv  minute,  and  Caius  listeiu'd  to  the  in- 
formation  she  poured  upon  him,  only  now  beginning  to 
realize  that  she  expected  him  to  wear  the  dress,  and  take 
the  iron  pole,  and  slip  from  the  old  cellar  into  the  tide 
when  it  ruse  high  enough,  and  from  thence  bring  back 
tlie  gii'l  witli  the  soft  curls  and  the  golden  ring.  It  was 
one  of  those  moments  in  which  laughter  and  tears  meet, 
but  there  was  a  glamour  of  such  strange  fantasy  over 
the  scene  that  Caius  felt,  not  so  much  its  humour  or  its 
pathos,  as  its  fairy-like  unreality,  and  that  which  gave 
him  the  sense  of  unreality  was  that  to  his  comi)anion  it 
was  intensely  real. 

"  You  said  you  would  go."  Some  perception  of  his 
hesitation  must  have  come  to  her;  her  words  were 
strong  with  insistence  and  wistful  with  rei)roach. 
"  You  said  you  would  go  and  fetch  her  in  to  me  be- 
fore I  die." 

Then  Cains  put  back  the  dress  she  held  on  the  rusty 
peg  where  it  had  hung  for  so  long. 

"  I  am  a  man,"  he  said.  "  I  can  swim  without  life- 
preservers.  I  will  go  and  try  to  bring  the  girl  back  to 
you.  But  not  now,  not  from  here ;  it  will  take  me  a 
week  to  go  and  come,  for  I  know  that  she  lives  far 


I! 


I    ! 


282 


TIIK  MEUMAII). 


Hi  I 
1^ 


)U 


(Ii 


away  in  the  middle  of  tlio  deep  gu\L  Conic  back  to 
tlie  liouse  and  take  care  of  yoursi-lf,  so  that  you  may 
live  until  she  comes.  You  may  trust  me.  1  will  cer- 
tainly brinj?  her  to  you  if  she's  alive  and  if  she  can  come." 

With  these  promises  and  protestations  he  ])revailed 
upon  the  poor  woman  to  return  with  him  to  lier  lonely 
home. 

Caius  had  not  got  far  on  his  road  home,  when  ho 
met  Day  coming  from  the  village.  Caius  wa*^  full  of  his 
determination  to  go  for  Jose|)hine  by  the  next  trip  of 
the  small  steamer.  His  excuse  was  valid  ;  he  could 
paint  the  interview  from  which  he  had  just  come  so  that 
Josephine  would  be  moved  by  it,  would  welcome  his  in- 
terference, and  come  again  to  nurse  her  uncle's  wife. 
^J'hus  thinking,  he  had  hurried  along,  but  when  he  met 
Dav  his  knij^ht-erran         eceived  a  check. 

"  Your  wife  ougl  .  .    i  to  be  alone,"  he  said  to  Day. 

"No;  that's  true!"  the  farmer  rejjlicd  drearily; 
"  but  it  isn't  everybody  she'll  have  in  the  house  with  her." 

"  Your  son  and  daughter  are  too  far  away  to  be 
scut  for?" 

"  Y'es" — briefly — "thev  are  in  the  west." 

Caius  paused  a  moment,  thinking  next  to  introduce 
the  subject  which  had  set  all  his  pulses  bounding,  lie- 
cause  it  was  momentous  to  him,  he  hesitated,  and  while 
he  hesitated  the  other  spoke. 

"  There  is  one  relation  I've  got,  the  daughter  of  a 
brother  of  mine  who  died  up  by  (Jaspe  Basin.  She's 
on  the  Magdalens  now.  I  understood  that  you  had  had 
dealings  with  her." 

"  Yes ;  I  was  just  about  to  suggest — I  was  going  to 
say- 


7J 


"  I  wrote  to  her.     She  is  coming,"  said  Day. 


I 


8 


:-k  to 
may 
I  cer- 
onio." 
vailed 
lonoly 

len  ho 
of  his 
:rip  of 
coiiUl 
8()  that 
his  iii- 
s  wife, 
he  met 

1  Dav. 

I  ^ 

•L'iirily ; 
h  her." 
to  be 


rod  lice 


\v 


Be- 

hile 


'  of  a 
She'8 
lad  had 


loin 


gto 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   EVENING   AND  THE   MORNING. 

Josephine  had  come.  All  night  and  all  the  next 
day  she  had  been  by  her  aunt's  bedside  ;  for  Day's  wife 
lay  helpless  now,  and  death  was  very  near.  This  much 
Caius  knew,  having  kept  himself  informed  by  commu- 
nication with  the  village  doctor,  and  twenty-four  hours 
after  Josephine's  arrival  he  walked  over  to  the  Day  farm, 
hoping  that,  as  the  cool  of  the  evening  might  relax  the 
strain  in  the  sick-room,  she  would  be  able  to  speak  to 
him  for  a  few  minutes. 

When  he  got  to  the  dreary  house  he  met  its  owner, 
who  had  just  finished  his  evening  work.  The  two  men 
sat  on  wooden  chairs  outside  the  door  and  watched  the 
dusk  gathering  on  sea  and  land,  and  although  they 
did  not  talk  much,  each  felt  glad  of  the  other's  com- 
panionship. 

It  was  nine  years  since  Caius  had  first  made  up  his 
mind  that  Day  was  a  monster  of  brutality  and  wicked- 
ness ;  now  he  could  not  think  himself  back  into  the 
state  of  mind  that  could  have  formed  such  p  judgment. 
When  Caius  had  condemned  Dav,  he  had  been  a  re- 
ligious  youth  who  thought  well  of  himself  ;  now  his  old 
religious  habits  and  beliefs  had  dropped  off,  but  he  did 
not  think  well  of  himself  or  harshly  of  his  neighbour. 
19  «88 


2S4 


THE  MKKMAID. 


;!  I 


hm 


In  tliosc  diiys  lie  had  felt  suflicieiit  for  life  ;  now  all  his 
feeling'  was  sunimctl  up  in  the  desire  that  was  scareely  a 
ho])e,  tiiat  some  heavenly  power,  holy  and  strong,  would 
come  to  his  aid. 

It  is  when  the  whole  good  of  life  hangs  in  a  trem- 
bling balance  that  people  become  like  children,  and  feel 
the  need  of  the  motherly  powers  of  Ilea, en.  Cains  sat 
with  Day  for  two  hours,  and  Josephine  did  not  come 
down  to  speak  to  him.  lie  was  glad  to  know  that  Day's 
evening  passed  the  more  easily  because  he  sat  there  with 
him ;  he  was  glad  of  that  when  he  was  glad  of  nothing 
that  concerned  himself. 

Day  aiui  Caius  did  not  talk  about  death  or  sorrow, 
or  anything  like  that.  All  the  remarks  that  they  inter- 
changed turned  upon  the  horses  Day  was  rearing  and 
their  pastures.  Day  told  that  he  had  found  the  grass 
on  tlie  little  island  rich. 

"  I  remember  finding  two  of  your  colts  there  one 
day  when  I  explored  it.  It  was  four  years  ago,"  said 
Caius  dreamily. 

Day  took  no  interest  in  this  lapse  of  time. 

"It's  an  untidy  bit  of  land,"  he  said,  "and  I  can't 
clear  it.  '  Tisn't  mine ;  but  no  one  heeds  the  colts 
grazing." 

"  Do  vou  swim  them  across?"  asked  Caius,  half  in 
polite  interest,  half  because  his  memory  was  wandering 
upon  the  water. 

"  They  got  so  sharp  at  swimming,  I  had  to  raise  the 
fence  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,"  said  Day. 

The  evening  wore  away. 

In  the  morning  Caius,  smitten  with  the  fever  of 
hope  and  fear,  rose  up  at  dawn,  and,  as  in  a  former 
time  he  had  been  wont  to  do,  ran  to  the  seashore  by  the 


all  bis 
irccly  a 
,  would 

a  trem- 
and  ftjel 
.'aius  sat 
.ot  come 
lat  l)uy':s 
wYv.  with 
:  uotbing 

)r  sorrow, 

ley  inter- 

aring  and 

the  graso 

there  one 
ago,"  said 


nd  I  can't 
the  colts 

IS,  half  in 
wandering 


THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 


285 


io  raise 


the 


1  fever  of 

a  former 

lore  by  the 


nearest  path  and  walked  beside  tlie  edge  of  the  waves. 
He  turned,  as  lie  had  always  done,  towards  the  litllo 
island  and  the  Day  Farm. 

How  well  he  knew  every  outward  curve  aful  indenta- 
tion of  the  soft  red  shelving  bank  !  how  well  he  kiu'W 
the  colouring  of  the  cool  scene  in  the  rising  day,  the 
iridescent  light  upon  the  lapping  waves,  the  glistening 
of  the  jasper  red  of  the  damp  beach,  and  the  earthen 
pinks  of  the  upper  cliils!  The  sea  birds  with  low 
pathetic  note  called  out  to  him  concerning  their  nuMn- 
ories  of  the  first  dawn  in  which  he  had  walked  Uiere 
searching  for  the  body  of  the  dead  baby.  Then  the 
cool  tints  of  dawn  ]  u.ised  into  the  golden  sunrise,  and 
the  birds  went  on  calling  to  him  concerning  the  numy 
times  in  which  he  had  trodden  this  path  as  a  lover 
whose  mistress  had  seemed  so  strange  a  denizen  of  this 
same  wide  sea. 

Caiusdid  not  think  with  scorn  now  of  this  old  puzzle 
and  bewilderment,  but  remembered  it  fondly,  and  went 
and  sat  beneath  baby  Day's  epitaph,  on  the  very  rock 
from  which  he  had  first  seen  Josephine.  It  was  very 
early  in  the  morning ;  the  sun  had  risen  bright  and 
warm.  At  that  season  even  this  desolate  bit  of  shore 
was  garlanded  above  with  the  most  lovely  green ;  the 
little  island  was  green  as  an  emerald. 

Oaius  did  not  intend  to  keep  his  present  place  long. 
The  rocky  point  where  the  rod  cliff  ended  hid  any  por- 
tion of  the  Day  farm  from  his  view,  and  as  soon  as  the 
morning  was  far  enough  advanced  he  intended  to  go 
and  see  how  the  owner  and  his  household  had  fared 
during  the  night. 

In  the  meantime  he  waited,  and  while  he  waited 
Fate  came  to  him  smiling. 


286 


THE  MERMAID. 


Ill 


;4  t 


Once  or  twice  as  he  sat  he  heard  the  sound  of 
horse's  feet  passing  on  the  cliff  above  him.  He  knew 
that  Day's  horses  were  there,  for  they  were  pastured 
alternately  upon  the  cliff  and  upon  the  richer  herbage 
of  the  little  island.  He  supposed  by  the  sounds  that 
they  were  catching  one  of  them  for  use  on  the  farm. 
The  sounds  went  further  away,  for  he  did  not  hear  the 
tread  of  hoofs  again.  He  had  forgotten  them ;  his  face 
had  dropped  upon  his  hands ;  he  was  looking  at  noth- 
ing, except  tiiat,  beneath  the  screen  of  his  fingers,  he 
could  see  the  red  pebbles  at  his  feet.  Something  very 
like  a  prayer  was  in  his  heart ;  it  had  no  form ;  it  was 
not  a  thing  of  which  his  intellect  could  take  cognizance. 
Just  then  he  heard  a  cry  of  fear  and  a  sound  as  if  of 
something  dashing  into  the  water.  The  sounds  came 
from  behind  the  rocky  point.  Caius  knew  the  voice  that 
cried  and  he  rose  up  wildly,  but  staggered,  baffled  by 
his  old  difficulty,  that  the  path  thither  lay  only  through 
deep  water  or  round  above  the  cliff. 

Then  he  saw  a  horse  swimming  round  the  red  rocks, 
and  on  its  back  a  woman  sat,  not  at  ease — evidently  dis- 
tressed and  frightened  by  the  course  the  animal  was 
taking.  To  Caius  the  situation  became  clear.  Joseph- 
ine had  thought  to  refresh  herself  after  her  night's 
vigil  by  taking  an  early  ride,  and  the  young  half-broken 
horse,  finding  himself  at  large,  was  making  for  the  deli- 
cacies which  he  knew  were  to  be  found  on  the  island 
pasture.  Josephine  did  not  know  why  her  steed  had 
put  out  to  sea,  or  whither  he  was  going.  She  turned 
round,  and,  seeing  Caius,  held  out  her  hand,  imploring 
his  aid. 

Caius  thanked  Heaven  at  that  moment.  It  was  true 
that  Josephine  kept  her  seat  upon  the  horse  perfectly, 


THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 


287 


and  it  was  true  that,  unless  the  animal  intended  to  lie 
down  and  roll  when  he  got  into  the  deep  grass  of  the 
island,  he  had  probably  no  malicious  intention  in  going 
there.  That  did  not  matter.  Josephine  was  terrified 
by  finding  herself  in  the  sea  and  she  had  cried  to  him 
for  aid.  A  quick  run,  a  sliort  swim,  and  Caius  waded 
up  on  the  island  sands.  The  colt  had  a  much  longer 
distance  to  swim,  and  Caius  waited  to  lay  his  hand  on 
the  bridle. 

For  a  minute  or  two  there  was  a  chase  among  the 
shallow,  rippling  waves,  but  a  horse  sinking  in  heavy 
sand  is  not  hard  to  catch.  Josephine  sat  passive,  hav- 
ing enough  to  do,  p.  "haps,  merely  to  keep  her  seat. 
When  at  length  Caius  stood  on  the  island  grass  with 
the  bridle  in  his  hand,  she  slipped  down  without  a  word 
and  stood  beside  him. 

Caius  let  the  dripping  animal  go,  and  he  went, 
plunging  with  delight  among  the  flowering  weeds  and 
bushes.  Caius  himself  was  dripping  also,  but,  then,  he 
could  answer  for  his  own  movements  that  he  would 
not  come  too  near  the  lady. 

Josephine  no  longer  wore  her  loose  black  working 
dress;  this  morning  she  was  clad  in  an  old  h  >it  of 
green  cloth.  It  was  faded  with  weather,  and  too  long 
in  the  skirt  for  the  fashion  then  in  vogue,  but  Caius 
did  not  know  that ;  he  only  saw  that  the  lower  part  of 
the  skirt  was  wet,  and  that,  as  she  stood  at  her  own 
graceful  height  upon  the  grass,  the  wet  cloth  twisted 
about  her  feet  and  lay  beside  them  in  a  rounded  fold, 
so  that  she  looked  just  now  more  like  the  pictures  of 
the  fabled  sea-maids  than  she  had  ever  done  when  she 
had  floated  in  the  water. 

The  first  thing  Josephine  did  was  to  look  up  in  his 


288 


THE  MERMAID. 


face  and  langh ;  it  was  her  own  merry  peal  of  low 
laughter  that  reminded  him  always  of  a  child  laugh- 
ing, not  more  for  fun  than  for  mere  happiness.  It 
bridged  for  him  all  the  sad  anxieties  and  weary  hours 
that  had  passed  since  he  had  heard  her  laugh  before ; 
and,  furthermore,  he  knew,  without  another  moment's 
doubt,  that  Josephine,  knowing  him  as  she  did,  would 
never  have  looked  up  to  him  like  that  unless  she  loved 
him.  It  was  not  that  she  was  thinking  of  love  just 
then — that  was  not  what  was  in  her  face ;  but  it  was 
clear  tliat  she  was  conscious  of  no  shadow  of  difference 
between  them  such  as  would  have  been  there  if  his 
love  had  been  doomed  to  disappointment.  She  looked 
to  him  to  join  in  her  laughter  with  perfect  comradesliip. 

"  Why  did  the  horse  come  here?  "  asked  Josephine. 

Caius  explained  the  motives  of  the  colt  as  far  as  he 
understood  them ;  and  she  told  how  she  had  per- 
suaded her  uncle  to  let  her  ride  it,  and  all  that  she 
had  thought  and  felt  when  it  had  run  away  with  her 
down  the  chine  and  into  the  water.  It  was  not  at  all 
what  he  could  have  believed  beforehand,  that  when 
he  met  Josephine  they  would  talk  with  perfect  con- 
tentment of  the  affairs  of  tlie  passing  hour ;  and  yet  so 
it  was. 

With  graver  faces  they  talked  of  the  dying  woman, 
with  whom  Josephine  had  passed  the  night.  It  was 
not  a  case  in  which  death  was  sad  ;  it  was  life,  not 
death,  that  was  sad  for  the  wandering  brain.  But 
Josephine  could  tell  how  in  tliose  last  nights  the  poor 
mother  had  found  peace  in  the  presence  of  her  sup- 
posed child. 

"  She  curls  my  hair  round  her  thin  fingers  and 
seems  so  happy,"  said  Josephine. 


THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 


289 


She  did  not  say  that  the  thin  hands  had  fingered 
her  wedding-ring ;  but  Cuius  thought  of  it,  and  that 
brought  him  back  the  remembrance  of  something  that 
had  to  be  said  that  must  be  said  then,  or  every  mo- 
ment would  become  a  sin  of  weak  dehiy. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  began — "  I  know  I  must 
tell  you — I  don't  know  exactly  why,  but  1  must — I  am 
sorry  to  say  anything  to  remind  you — to  distress  you — 
but  I  hated  Le  Maitre  !  Looking  back,  it  seems  to  mo 
that  the  only  reason  I  did  not  kill  him  was  that  I  was 
too  much  of  a  coward." 

Josephine  looked  off  upon  the  sea.  The  wearied 
pained  look  that  she  used  to  wear  when  the  people 
were  ill  about  her,  or  that  she  had  worn  when  she 
heard  Le  Maitre  was  returning,  came  back  to  her  face, 
so  that  she  seemed  not  at  all  the  girl  who  had  been 
laughing  with  him  a  minute  before,  but  a  saint,  whose 
image  he  could  have  worshipped.  And  yet  he  saw 
then,  more  clearly  than  he  had  ever  seen,  that  the 
charm,  the  perfect  consistency  of  her  character,  lay  in 
the  fact  that  the  childlike  joy  was  never  far  off  from 
the  woman's  strength  and  patience,  and  that  a  wom- 
anly heart  always  underlay  the  merriest  laughter. 

They  stood  silent  for  a  long  time.  It  is  in  silence 
that  God's  creation  grows. 

At  length  Josephine  spoke  slowly  : 

"  Yes,  we  are  often  very,  very  wicked  ;  but  I  think 
when  we  are  so  much  ashamed  that  we  have  to  tell 
about  it — I  think  it  means  that  we  will  never  do  it 
again." 

"  I  am  not  good  enough  to  love  you,"  said  Caius 
brokenly. 

"  Ah  !  do  not  say  that  " — she  turned  her  face  away 


290 


THE  MERMAID. 


If 

m 
m 
i 


I 


from  him — "  remember  the  last  time  you  spoke  to  me 
upon  the  end  of  the  dune." 

Caius  went  back  to  the  shore  to  get  the  boat  that 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  chine.  The  colt  was  allowed  to 
enjoy  his  paradise  of  island  flowers  in  peace. 


THE  END. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 


PUBLISHED  SEMIMONTHLY. 


1.  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louw  Ulbach. 

2.  Eve.    A  Novel.    By  S.  Baihno-Gould. 

8.  F(yr  Fifteen  Years.    A  Sequel  to  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Locis  Ulbach. 
4.  A  Cauftsel  of  Perfection.    A  Novel.    By  Lucas  Malbt. 
6.  The  Deetn<iier.    A  Komance.    By  Hall  Caink. 

6.  A  Virginia  Inheritance.    By  Edmund  Pendleton. 

7.  Ninette :  An  Idyll  of  Provence.    By  the  author  of  V6ra. 

8.  "  The  Right  Honourable.''''   By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell-Fraeo. 

9.  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitlamt.    By  Maxwell  Gkay. 

10.  Mrs.  Larimer;  A  Study  in  Black  and  White.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

11.  The  Elect  Lady.    By  George  MacDonald. 

12.  The  Mystery  of  the '' Ocean  Star.''    By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

13.  Aristocracy.    A  Novel. 

14.  A  ReaMing  Vengeance.    By  Frank  Barrett.    With  lilustrationB. 

15.  The  Secret  of  Fontaine-la- Croix.    By  Margaret  Field. 

16.  The  Master  qf  Rathkelly.    By  IIawley  Smart. 

17.  Donovan:  A  Modern  Englishman.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

18.  This  Mortal  Coil.    By  Grant  Allen. 

19.  A  Fair  Emigrant.    By  Kosa  Mulholland. 

20.  The  Apostate.    By  Ernest  Daudet. 

2L  Raleigh  Westgate ;  or,  Epiinenides  in  Maine.    By  Uelen  Eendrick  Johnson. 

22.  Arius  the  Libyan:  A  lioraaiice  of  the  Primitive  Church. 

23.  Constance,  and  CalboVs  Rival.    By  Jullan  Hawthorne. 

24.  We  Two.    By  Edna  Lvall. 

25.  A  Dreamer  of  Dreams.    By  the  author  of  Thoth. 

26.  The  Ladies''  Gallery.    By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Caxpbbll-Prakd. 

27.  The  Reproach  qf  Annesley.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

28.  Near  to  Happiness. 

29.  In  the  Wire- Grass.    By  Louis  Pendleton. 

80.  Lace.    A  Berlin  Komance.    By  Paul  Lindau. 

81.  American  Coin.    A  Novel.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

82.  Won  by  Waiting.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

33.  The  Story  of  Helen  Davenant.    By  Violet  Fane. 

34.  The  Light  of  Her  Countenance.    By  H.  H.  Boyesen. 

35.  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope.    By  M.  E.  Le  Clerc. 

86.  The  Knight-Errant.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

87.  In  the  Golden  Days.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

88.  Oiraldi ;  or,  The  Curee  of  Love.    By  Ross  George  Dering. 

89.  A  Hardy  Norseman.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

40.  The  Romance  of  Jenny  Harlowe,  &v.\i  Sketches  qf  Maritime  Life.     By  W. 

Clark  Ru  '  ""'.l. 

41.  Pa8sion''s  Siuvt.    By  Richard  Ashe-King. 

42.  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwkk.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

43.  Countess  Loreley.    Trcislated  from  the  Germuii  of  Rudolf  Menobr. 

44.  Blind  Love.    By  Wilkib  Collins. 

45.  The  Dean's  Daughter.    By  Sophie  F.  F.  Veitch. 

46.  Countess  Irene.    A  Romance  of  Austrian  Life.    By  J.  Fooertt. 

47.  Robert  Browning's  Principal  Shorter  I'oems. 

48.  Frozen  Hearts.    By  G.  W^ebb  Am'leton. 

49.  Djambek  the  Georgian.    By  A.  G.  von  Suttner. 

JO.  The  Craze  of  Christian  Enqelhart.    By  Henry  Faulkner  Darnell. 

51.  Lai.    By  William  A.  Hammond,  M.  D. 

52.  Aline.    A  Novel.    By  Henry  Gr^ville. 

53.  Joost  Avelingh.    A  Dutch  Story.    By  Maarten  Maartens. 

54.  Katy  of  Catoctin.    By  George  Alfred  Townsend. 

B5.  Throckmnrr^m.    A  Novel.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 
66  Expatfiatlon.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 
57.  O&iffrey  Hampstead.    By  T.  8.  Jabvis. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  UJil{AllY.-(Confimte(l.) 


58. 
59. 
(50. 
Ul. 
(5a. 

m. 

(M. 
(55. 
6*5. 
(57. 
(58. 
Oi). 
70. 
71. 
7U. 
73. 
74. 
75. 
7(5. 

I  (  . 

7H. 

79. 

80. 

81. 

82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

8(5. 

87. 

88. 

89. 

JK). 

91. 

93. 

9:^. 

W. 

95. 

9(5. 

97. 

98. 

95). 
100. 
101. 
10>.>. 
103. 
104. 
105. 
10(5. 
107. 
108. 
109. 
110. 
IIOJ 
111. 
112. 
113. 
114. 
115. 
110. 
117. 
118. 
119. 
120. 


Ihnitri.    A  Romance  of  Old  Riineia.    By  F.  W.  Bain,  M.  A. 
Part  of  the  Property.    By  Bkatiiick  Wiiitby. 
Jilmnarck  in  Prirate  Life.    By  a  Ft-l  low -Student. 
In  Low  Relief.     By  Moui.KY  HouEnTn. 

The  Catiadiaiut  of  Old.    A  lliHtorical  Komancc.    By  Piiilippe  Gxarfi. 
A  Sgidre  of  Imiv  Degree.    By  Lily  A.  Loncj. 
A  Flut'(?'eil  Dorecote.    By  (.Jkouoe  Manvii.lk  Fenn. 
The  uSuaents  of  Varricoiiua.    An  IrlHli  Story.    By  Tiuiie  Hopkins. 
A  Sensitive  Plant.    By  E.  and  1).  Cjekaiu). 

l>ona  Liti.    By  Juan  Valeka.    TiaiiHlatt'd  by  Mrs.  Mauy  J.  Seiikano. 
Pepita  Kiimnez.    By  Jitan  N'ai.eha.    Translated  by  Mih.  Mauy  .).  Seiirano. 
The  Primes  and  thi'ir  Neigldtors.    By  liiciiAim  Malcolm  Joiinhton. 
The  Iron  Game.    By  Henuy  F.  Keenan. 
Stories  of  Old  New  Spain.    By  Thomah  A.  Janvier. 
Tlie  Maid  of  Honor.    l?y  Hon.  Lewis  \Vin(JKIelu. 
In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.    J?y  Maxwell  Gkav. 
Consequents.    By  Eoeiiton  ("amtle. 
The  Three  Miss  Kings.    By  Ada  ('ajhukiixje. 
A  Matter  of  Skill.    By  Beatkke  Whitby. 
Maid  .Manan,  and  other  Stories.    By  Molly  Elliot  Skawbll. 
One  Woman^s  H'rty.    By  Edmitno  Pendleton. 
.-1  Merciful  Dirorce.    By  F.  \V.  Mai:i)e. 
Stephen  EllicotVs  Daughter.    By  Mrs.  J.  IL  Needell. 
One  Reason  Whi/.    By  BEATmcK  VVurriiY. 
The  Tragedy  of  Ida  Noble.    By  W  ("lauk  Russell. 
The  lohnstoicn  Stage,  and  other  stories.    By  JioKEUT  H.  Fletcher. 
A  Widower  Indeed.    By  Uhoda  Buouoiiton  and  Elizabeth  Bi»land. 
The  Flight  of  the  Shadow.    By  (iEouuK  MacDonald. 
Lore  or  Money.    By  Kathaiune  Lee. 
Not  All  in  Vain.    By  Ada  ("  \MBKn)(iE. 
It  Happened  Yesterday.    By  Fuedeuick  Marshall. 
My  Guardian.    By  Ada  Cambridge. 
The  Story  of  Philip  Methuen.    By  Mrs.  J.  IL  Needell. 
Amethyst :  The  Story  of  a  Beanty.    By  Christabel  U.  (^oleridoe. 
Don  Itraulio.    By  Juan  Valera.    Translated  by  Clara  Bell. 
The  Chi-onides  of  Mr.  Hill  Williams.    By  RichaVid  Malcolm  Johnstok. 
A  Qiwen  of  Curds  and  Cream.    By  Dorothea  Gerard. 
"  La  Bella  "  and  Others.    By  Eoerton  Castle. 
"  Deceml)er  Roses.'"    By  Mrs.  ("ampbell-Praed. 
Jean  de  Kerdren.    By  Jeanne  Schultz. 
Etelka's  Vow.    By  Dorothea  Gerard. 
t'ross  Currents.    By  Mary  A.  Dickens. 
His  Life's  Magnet.    By  Theodora  Elmslib. 
Pamng  the  Lore  of  Women.    By  .Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 
In  Old  St.  Stephen's.     By  Jeanie  Drake. 

The  Berkeleys  and  their  Neightjors.    By  Molly  Elliot  SEAWBLii. 
Mona  Maclean,  Medical  Stud-nt.    By  Graham  Travers. 
Mrs.  liligh.    By  Rhoda  Broimuiton. 
A  Stumttle  on  the  Threshold.    By  James  Payn. 
Hanging  Moss.    By  Paul  Lindau. 
.4  Comedy  of  Elopement.    By  Christian  Reid. 
In  the  Suntlme  of  her  Youth.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 
Stories  in  Black  and  White.    By  Tho.mas  Hardy  and  Others. 
An  Englishman  in  Paris.    Notes  and  Recollectious. 
Cotnmander  Mendoza.    By  Juan  Valera. 
Dr.  PauWs  Theory.    By  Mrs.  A.  M.  Dieul. 
Children  of  DeMiny.    By  Molly  Elliot  Sbawell. 
A  Little  Minr.    By  Ada  Cambridge. 
CapVn  Davy's  Honcynwon.    By  Hall  Caine. 
The  Voice  of  a  Flower.    By  E.  Gerard. 
Singularly  Deluded.    By  Sarah  Grand. 
Susiyected.    By  Louipa  Stratenus. 
Lucia,  Hugh,  and  Another.    By  Mre.  J.  H.  Nbedbll. 
The  Tutors  Secret.    By  Victor  CHXRBin.i£z. 


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121. 
123. 
123. 
124. 
12.5. 
12(J. 
127. 
128. 
129. 
ISO. 
131. 
132. 
i:i3. 
134. 
135. 
ISfi. 
137. 

i:w. 

13«J. 
140. 
141. 
142. 
14:5. 
141. 
145. 
140. 
147. 
148. 
149. 
l.W. 
1.51. 
1.52. 
153. 
1.54. 
155. 
1.5«. 
1.57. 
1.58. 
159. 
ICO. 
1(51. 
1(12. 


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force 


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"  A  work  of  power  wliich  is  another  stone  added  to  the  foundation  of  enduring  fame 
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one  can  not  afford  to  neglect." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  stands  head  and  shoulders  above  the  average  novelist  of  the 
day  in  intellectual  subdety  and  imaginative  power." — Boston  Beacon, 


$1.00. 

tale  is 
t  is  not 
it  looks 
.iterarjf 

->us  litde 
luch  of 


^Ons  FOOL.     By  Maarten    Maartens.      i2mo. 

>-^     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Throughout  there  is  an  epigrammatic  force  which  would  make  palatable  a  less 
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"  Perfecdy  easy,  graceful,  humorous.  .  .  .  The  author's  skill  in  character-drawing 
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"  A  remarkable  work." — N^eiv  Vork  Times. 

"Maarten  Maartens  has  secured  a  firm  footing  In  the  eddies  of  current  literature. 
.  .  .  Pathos  deepens  into  tragedy  in  the  thrilling  story  of  '  God's  Fool.'" — PhiladeU 
phia  Ledger. 

"  Its  preface  alone  stamps  the  author  as  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists  of 
to-day." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  brilliant.  .  .  .  The  interest  never  lags;  the  style  is 
realistic  and  intense ;  and  there  is  a  constantly  underlying  current  of  subtle  humor. 
...  It  is,  in  short,  a  book  which  no  student  of  modem  literature  should  fail  to  read." 
— Boston  Times, 

"  A  story  of  remarkable  interest  and  point." — New  York  Observer, 


7 


VOST  AVELINGH.      By  Maarten    Maartens. 

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Post. 

"  In  scarcely  any  of  the  sensational  novels  of  the  day  will  the  reader  find  more 
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istic."— London  Literary  World. 

"  Full  of  local  color  and  rich  in  quaint  phraseology  and  suggestion." — London 
Telegraph. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  is  a  capital  story-teller." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"Our  English  writers  of  fiction  will  have  to  look  to  their  laurels." — Birmingham 
Daily  Pott,  


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OUND  THE  RED  LAMP.    By  A.  Con  an  Doyle, 

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set  rets  for  the  siir^;eon,  and,  n  snrKeoii  himself  as  well  as  a  novelist,  the  author  has 
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of  which  he  is  the  master. 

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ful woniiin  ;  and  if  any  other  love  story  half  so  sm  eet  has  been  written  this  year  it  has 
escaped  us." — AVw  York  Jitnes. 

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HE  LAND   OF  THE  SUN.     Vistas  Mexicanas. 

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of  Mexico.  "What  they  see  and  what  they  do  aie  described  in  a  vivacious 
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DAUGHTER  OF  TO-DAY.     A  Novel. 

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i2nio. 


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SOCIAL  DEPARTURE:  Htm  Orthodocia  and  I 

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"  It  IS  to  be  doubted  whether  another  book  can  be  found  so  thoroughly  amusing 
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"  A  brighter,  merrier,  more  entirely  charming  book  would  be,  indeed,  difficult  to 
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SAHIB.  With  37  Illustrations  by  F.  II.  Townsend.  i2ino. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  like  traveling  without  leaving  one's  armchair  to  read  it.  Miss  Duncan  hai 
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the  street  scenes,  the  interiors,  the  bewilderingly  queer  natives,  the  gayeties  of  the 
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ADA  CAMBRIDGE'S  NOVELS. 

Y  GUARDIAN.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth, 
$1.00. 

"  A  story  which  will,  from  first  to  last,  enlist  the  sympathies  nf  the  render  by  its 
simplicity  of  style  and  fresh,  genuine  feeling.  .  .  .  I'hc  author  is  au/ait  at  the  delinea- 
tion of  cnaracter."~/'<'j/<»«  Transcript. 

"  The  lUnoAment  is  all  that  the  most  ardent  romance-reader  could  desire."— CAi- 
cago  Evening  yournal. 


7 


^HE   THREE  MISS  KINGS. 

cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 


i2mo.     Paper,  50 


"  An  exceedingly  strong  novel.  It  is  an  Australian  story,  teeming  with  a  certain 
calmness  of  emotional  power  that  finds  expression  in  a  continual  outflow  of  living 
thought  and  feeling."  -Biiston  limes. 

"  The  story  is  told  with  great  brilliancy,  the  charac'er  and  society  sketching  is  very 
charming,  while  delightful  inciilents  and  happy  surprises  abound.  It  is  a  triple  love« 
story,  pure  in  tone,  and  of  very  high  literary  merit." — Chicago  Herald. 


N 


OT  ALL    IN    VAIN. 

cloth,  $1.00. 


i2mo.     Paper,   50  cents; 


"  A  worthy  companion  to  the  best  of  the  author's  former  efforts,  and  in  some  re- 
spects superior  to  any  of  them." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  Its  surprises  areas  unexpected  as  Frank  Stockton's,  but  they  are  the  surprises 
that  are  met  with  so  oonstintly  in  h  iman  experience.  ...  A  better  story  has  not  been 
published  in  many  moons." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


MARRIAGE  CEREMONY. 

cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 


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A 


A 

'"A  Marriage  Ceremony'  is  highly  ori^nal  in  conception,  its  action  graceful 
though  rapid,  and  its  characters  sparkling  with  that  life  and  sprightUness  that  have 
made  their  author  rank  as  a  peer  of  delineators." — Baltimore  American. 

"This  story  by  Ada  Cambridge  is  one  of  her  best,  and  to  say  that  is  to  at  once 
award  it  high  ^tMS^fi." -^Boston  Advertiser. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  read  this  nQvA."—Lontion  Athenaum. 

LITTLE  MINX.    12010.    Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth, 
$1.00. 

"  A  thoroughly  charming  new  novel,  which  is  just  the  finest  bit  of  work  its  author 
has  yet  accomplished  " — Baltimore  American. 

"The  character  of  the  ver.<«atile,  resilient  heroine  is  especially  cleverly  drawn."— 
New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  English  Press  on  Ada  Cambridge's  Books. 

"  Many  of  the  types  of  character  introduced  would  not  have  disgraced  George 
ItXxoX.:'— Vanity  Fair. 

"  Ada  Cambridge's  book,  is  rendered  attractive  by  the  kindly  spirit  and  fine  feeling 
which  it  evinces,  by  the  wide  and  generous  sympathies  of  its  author,  and  no  less  by 
her  remarkable  literary  ability."— 7"A*  Speaker. 

New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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